


Children of Pegasus

by canis_lupus



Series: Ex Patria [2]
Category: Stargate Atlantis, Stargate SG-1
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF John, BAMF Rodney, Independent Atlantis, M/M, Multi, Open Relationships, Other, Politics, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-11
Updated: 2016-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-30 02:28:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 74,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3919456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canis_lupus/pseuds/canis_lupus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of the Wraith attack, Earth and Atlantis must re-define their relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Follows on right where 'Decade' left off and will not make much sense if you haven't read that first.

The sun was starting to set when John woke up, eyes gritty, head pounding, and in sore need of a shower. He found himself in a tangled-up pile with Ronon and Rodney, hardly able to extricate himself enough to sit up. He promptly wished he hadn't because, wow, his head really hurt, and there was a taste in his mouth he preferred not to analyse too closely. He ran a hand through his hair, and, ewww, sticky. Yes, he really needed a shower. And a piss. 

He stumbled to his feet, swayed for a moment, and then limped around to collect his clothes. What the hell had he done to himself last night? The details were very, very vague, but he remembered sex with Rodney. And going down on Ronon. He was reasonably sure there had been more sex after that, but he couldn't, for the life of him, recall the details. Oh well. It was hardly the first time that happened, and it probably wouldn't be the last. 

He dragged his pants over his hips and winced, then blinked with consternation at the dark, distinctly finger-shaped bruises over his hipbones. Apparently, they'd gotten a little carried away? He gave a mental shrug and didn't tug the leather cords quite as tight as usual. The gun belts, unfortunately, ran right over the bruises and he resigned himself to some discomfort with a sigh. He tugged a shirt over his head, then realized he'd gotten Rodney's when the shoulders came down over his upper arms and the hem barely reached his trousers. He went poking around for his own shirt and finally found it tangled up under Rodney's legs. Rodney grumbled in his sleep when he removed it, but turned around and continued to snore after a moment. 

He didn't bother to do up the laces on his shirt, but, dressed and armed, he felt much better equipped to deal with the necessary clean-up. Other people were starting to stir, most not in much better condition than John. The party had gone on until well after sunrise, if John remembered correctly. Earth's nights were just so much shorter than they were all used to. And instead of a couple of days downtime, maybe some surfing on the mainland, or just hanging out with the Athosians for a bit, as they would at home after a victory like this, it was right back to work. John was about to run his hand through his hair again, then remembered its less than sanitary condition and stopped. Instead, he went to kick Rodney and Ronon awake, and to start loading their stuff and people into the jumpers, to head back up to the Cyrinius, and at least catch a couple of hours of post-party relaxation, with showers and food and tea against the headache, and sleep in an actual, warm, soft bed.

***

Jeannie sat in front of the TV with Kaleb and her daughter, and listened to the President of the United States give a speech about aliens. She vaguely realized they were witness to something momentous, something of more historical significance than anything since... oh, she didn't know since when. There was a head of government on TV talking about _aliens_...! As she listened, she could see the story being spun, see history be written, the references to the heroic sacrifices good Americans (of course) had been making for their nation and their planet for almost twenty years. The speech was good, subtly reassuring, steering attention away from the fact that the world's major governments had been keeping one hell of a big secret from their citizens for a scandalously long time. Jeannie suspected that that speech had been lying in a drawer for a long time. The President also announced that there would be a documentary aired later that night, which would also be made available free of charge to any other government that wished to show it. Yes, there was preparation here. Well, that wasn't entirely surprising, the people in charge had to have been aware that this secret would eventually come to light, but still... Jeannie was vaguely upset that this, _this_ thing, which made every conspiracy theory on the internet look like child's play, had been kept a secret, by more than one government from the allusions the U.S. President made. And considering her own brother's involvement in this secret, she suspected her government had been one of those in the know. People she had elected, she had helped vote into office, had lied to their people. She wondered what the fall-out would be, whether this would blow up out of all proportion, whether she would look back on this day as the day the world as she knew it ended, would wish that the secret had been kept for longer, or whether this would be the day Earth made a large step forward, or whether things would just go back to normal, people docile and content to stay that way. She didn't know. She really didn't.

They watched the documentary in the evening, and it was heart-breaking, and scary. God, how had her brother ever gotten involved with something like this? There were interviews, normal programs rescheduled so they could air, interviews with one General O'Neill, from the U.S. Airforce, dressed sharply in a blue uniform loaded down with the mysterious decorations of his rank, still handsome, eyes still sharp, despite the silver in his hair. He had apparently been a part of the “Stargate Programme”, as they referred to it, since the beginning. He was also in the documentary, had headed up what they called a “gate team” for years, and, from the way they made it sound, single-handedly saved Earth from alien invasions dozens of times. Jeannie wasn't sure how much to believe, wasn't sure how much to trust these people, who had worked in secret for so long. O'Neill's face was stony throughout the interview, nothing there she could identify with. There were promises of more interviews, of a history of the programme, of this and that, tomorrow or in the next couple of days, and Jeannie asked herself, when she lay awake in bed that night, mind whirling, how much they would be told and how much would be swept under the carpet. She really wanted to speak to Mer. At least she knew him, and he couldn't lie to save his life. There had been no mention of him, or the people he had been with, no mention of Atlantis or the Pegasus galaxy in the news today. She wondered what that meant.

***

When Sheppard and McKay trudged into the Conference Room on Friday morning, three and a half weeks after they first dropped out of Hyperspace above the planet, they didn't look all that much better than the last time he'd seen them, Cam thought. There were still shadows under their eyes, they were still smoking their alien cigarettes with fervour, and they didn't look particularly happy to see anyone.

Landry chose to ignore this, and greeted them cordially enough, but the air was already heavy with restlessness, with tension. 

“I'm not sure whether you've been informed,” he started after greetings and enough small-talk had been exchanged to satisfy courtesy, “but as of 1800 hours yesterday, the Stargate Programme has been officially declassified. Steps to inform the general population are under way. The President has already made an announcement, and the heads of state of Canada, Japan, the United Kingdom and France are supposed to follow him before noon today. The other contributing countries are expected to follow suit in the next few days.” He looked between Sheppard, McKay and Dex, then returned his glance to Sheppard, his bushy eyebrows straight and serious. “This raises the question, gentlemen, of what to do with you. Obviously, due to the unfortunate circumstances, all members of the expedition have been declared dead years ago and the families notified. But now that we can explain how exactly you got lost, there is nothing preventing us from revoking that. Of course, there are monetary matters to be sorted out, pensions paid out and back-pay owed and such, but I'm sure that can be managed to the satisfaction of all involved. I'm happy to say that nothing stands in the way of your rejoining your respective countries, since the entire conception of the Atlantis expedition will have to be re-evaluated in light of the information about the Wraith and other threats you have brought back.”

Sheppard went from vaguely grumpy to stony-faced in the blink of an eye. 

Cam wanted to wince. Personally, he'd thought they should probably let the Atlantians set the tone of the meeting, test the waters a bit first, but his suggestions had fallen on deaf ears. He knew the President wasn't too happy about another alien threat now that the Goa'uld and the Ori were gone, and probably couldn't conceive of an Atlantis expedition that might not want to return home after all this time. Cam found it hard enough to understand, and he'd seen how the expedition members acted, had heard how they spoke of Atlantis and the Pegasus galaxy. He'd been to foreign planets, had met cultures uninfluenced by the last couple of centuries of Earth history, knew just how much points of view could differ, how many things that seemed completely natural to him and anyone else on Earth might not at all seem natural to someone from a different planet... or someone who'd spent enough time on one. General Landry and, even more so, O'Neill understood these things, so Cam suspected it was pressure from above that made them so... undiplomatic.

“Are you saying the expedition will be recalled?” Sheppard asked, tone careful. 

“At the moment, it seems likely, at least until we have re-evaluated our degree of involvement in the Pegasus galaxy,” Landry answered, with a good show of being unruffled, but Cam could see the tension in O'Neill's shoulders, the wariness under his placid expression. 

While Sheppard's face was a blank mask to match the generals at the table, McKay was much easier to read. He looked consternated, surprised, as if a development like this had never occurred to him. He opened his mouth to speak, shot a look at Sheppard next to him, and seemed to think better of it. 

“I'm afraid a recall is unacceptable,” Sheppard said, more measured and calm than Cam would have expected. 

“That's not your call to make, _Major_ Sheppard,” Caldwell sneered. 

Sheppard didn't blink, didn't shift from where he was slouched back in his chair. “The Confederation is the best chance there ever was to defeat the Wraith for good, and Lantis plays a fundamental role in the Confederation. As Supreme Commander of the Armed Forces of the Confederation, I have responsibilities, and one of them is informing you that a withdrawal of all Earth-born personnel, a withdrawal from Atlantis, is not an option.” 

“Be that as it may, General Caldwell is still quite correct,” Landry answered. “It's not your call to make. The President and the Joint Chiefs haven't given out a definite order yet, but a recall, at least a temporary one, is the favoured option at the moment. It has been strongly suggested to us to prepare the ground as it were for a recall.”

“And how would you effect such a recall?” Sheppard still sounded frighteningly calm, only mildly sceptical.

“Well, now that we have Dr. McKay's recharge unit for the ZPM, we can use the gate to retrieve people and belongings. The necessary administrative staff can take a second charged ZPM through with them.”

There was a moment of stunned silence, as it seemed to register with the Atlantians, and Cam for that matter, for the first time that the only thing that had ever stood between them and Atlantis had been a missing ZPM. Now that they could recharge them practically at will... it was simply a matter of dialling the Stargate.

It was McKay who broke the silence with an incredulous splutter.

“Oh, for...! You have got to be joking! First of all, what's with the 'we'? That technology's ours, not yours! Secondly, it's not finished! Testing, people, _testing_! It's not _safe_! And thirdly, who do you think you are?? You can't just order us home like, like, like misbehaving children after _ten fucking years_!! Do you think we're stupid? Do you think we don't know that you've long since given up on us?? Do you think we're the same people who left here a decade ago? Well, let me tell you, if you think we'll just abandon the people who've stood with us for the last ten years, that we'll just up and leave and let the Wraith have them, that we'll crawl back and pretend the last ten years never happened, you've got another thing coming!”

“Rodney...” 

McKay turned to Sheppard, completely ignoring, or perhaps not noticing, the warning in his voice. 

“What? _What?!_ You can't seriously consider letting them _do_ this? Not _now_! Not when we have a fighting chance for the first time _ever_ , not now that we have the Confederation, and enough food for everyone, and now that we don't have to run and hide at the smallest sign of trouble! Not now that we can finally give as good as we get! God, I _knew_ it was a mistake to trust them with the ZPM! We should never have shared our tech! It's like the Genii all over again, first you offer them a bit of C4 to blow up a couple of stumps, and the next thing you know, a deranged psychopath is holding a gun to your head and threatening to nuke your city!”

He turned back to the rest of the table without allowing anyone to get a word in edgewise. “You can't just take our tech! We've sweated for it, we've bled for it, hell, we've _died_ for it, and you can't expect us to just hand it over with nothing in return!”

“Rodney.” This time, Sheppard's tone was friendly, jovial. There was even a smile on his lips, though it didn't quite reach his eyes. McKay turned back to him, annoyed frown on his face and mouth open to continue his diatribe. Then he caught sight of Sheppard's expression. His eyes opened wide, his mouth snapped shut, and he backed away as far as his chair would allow, hands up. Cam thought he might even have gone a shade paler. 

Cam felt his eyebrows go up. McKay looked downright _scared_.

Sheppard held eye contact with him for another second, then turned back to the table. He leaned forward on his elbows and looked at them earnestly. 

“Now, let's be honest here and not beat around the bush. We don't want to hurt each other. We're not enemies, and I'm sure none of us want to be. I know I don't, and neither does my crew. We've grown up here. Some of us still have family here. We're all well aware of that, I'm sure. _However_ ,” he continued with heavy emphasis, “McKay's also got a point. We can't just up and leave Pegasus. We have connections there, lives. We have people there, some of whom we've been friends with for the entirety of the past ten years. It would be a betrayal beyond imagination to leave them, to withdraw from the Confederation, to sit here in safety while they fight for their lives, their cultures, their children, every day.”

Cam wanted to groan in despair. Sheppard looked so serious, so imploring, with the big eyes and the messy hair... and so very, very young. And Cam could tell that it wasn't working, could see from the tilt of Landry's bushy eyebrows and the set of Caldwell's mouth, that they weren't hearing him, that they saw the unlined features, the begging eyes, and stamped the man a young idealist, the rational knowledge that he wasn't actually _that_ young lost under superficialities. He could tell they saw the young pilot who'd disobeyed orders to fly a harebrained rescue mission, the young man who meant well, but didn't quite fit in. And Cam couldn't help but suspect that that was a very, very big mistake. 

He shot a look at O'Neill. The general had his arms crossed, a vaguely interested expression on his face that gave nothing whatsoever away. Cam now saw a new significance in Daniel's absence. He'd just assumed the other man was busy, or not interested in this kind of politicking military business, but maybe... maybe he hadn't been invited, for good reason. 

“Of course I understand your situation,” Landry answered in measured tones. “But you also have to understand our position. This last engagement showed clearly that we'll have to take steps to protect Earth from these Wraith now. If one group could make it here, so can another. We have to concentrate our resources on Earth and solidify our own position and _then_ we can re-evaluate how best to extend our help again.”

“I consider it highly unlikely that this group of Wraith shared their intergalactic hyperdrive technology with other groups,” Sheppard argued. “They're not really all that much for cooperation, especially where feeding grounds are concerned. It can well take another decade or two before the next threat of this magnitude develops. And if we stop them in Pegasus, if we keep fighting them like we have, it may never come this close again.”

“ _May_ ,” Landry emphasized. “We _have_ to plan for the eventuality that another fleet could arrive here in mere months. And as things stand, Earth will not be ready to defend itself against such an attack. We all know that you and your ship were the deciding factor in this battle.”

Sheppard blinked, and Cam could practically see the friendly, cooperative expression slide off his face as his eyes widened, then narrowed, the corners of his mouth turned down.

“You want the Cyrinius.” It was a statement, flat and incredulous.

Cam thought O'Neill looked vaguely guilty, but Landry and Caldwell looked simply resolved while Cam shifted in his seat. He _really_ didn't like where this was going. A recall of the expedition... sure, that was the military's prerogative if they considered the expedition still under their jurisdiction. But... that ship? Sure, it would be awesome to have it around to defend Earth, to study it's technology, but it wasn't theirs to keep. 

“You have the outpost. You now know how to make drones to restock it, and you've got a 50%-charged ZPM to power it with. Isn't that _enough_?” Yes, Sheppard's earlier diplomacy was definitely gone.

“As I said,” Landry answered, not sounding too happy himself, though probably at Sheppard's attitude more than the topic, “the battle three days ago proved that it wouldn't be enough. We _need_ that ship of yours.”

Sheppard leaned back, crossing his arms. “No. Absolutely not.”

“And why would that be?” Caldwell asked snidely.

“She's not mine to give, even if I wanted to,” Sheppard retorted. “The Cyrinius is Confederation property, not just Lantian. She belongs to Pegasus.”

“What do you mean, the ship's not yours? Yet you fly her here to save your home planet?”

Wow. Cam had to admit he was sort of impressed that Caldwell had managed to insinuate an insult into a sentence like that. Sheppard's upper lip curled in the beginnings of a sneer before he smoothed his features out again. Cam was pretty sure the man was starting to lose patience with this farce- because to Cam at least it was blindingly obvious that this wasn't going to work out the way the President and his advisors wanted it to. The more they kept pushing at the Atlantians, the less cooperative they became. 

“She _is_ my ship. My ship as Supreme Commander of the Confederation. If I'm no longer a member of the Confederation, I don't have a claim on her. And all sentimentalism aside, it was a reasonable tactical decision to deny the Wraith this feeding ground. Their starvation and the resulting rivalries are one of the few things in our favour in this war.”

Ouch. 'Sentimentalism', now if that wasn't as clear a 'fuck off' as Cam had ever heard he didn't know what would be. Even O'Neill raised an eyebrow at that.

“Besides,” Sheppard continued, “what do you plan to do with the several dozen crew members who _aren't_ Earth-born who staff the ship? Keep them here in forced exile? Stuff them in a lab for study?” 

Landry shot him an affronted look at that. “Of course not! They are perfectly welcome to return to any world they wish through our gate, of course.”

“Oh, how generous of you. The answer, gentlemen, is _no_. With or without me, the Cyrinius will return home to Pegasus.”

“I understand you have extensive repairs to perform before the ship can undertake such a journey,” Landry countered with a frown. 

“Oh, it'll take a couple days until she's fit for intergalactic travel,” Sheppard drawled, slouching back in his chair, arms still crossed. Apparently, he had decided to cease all pretences of respect that were left. “However, she's in no way dependant on Earth for those repairs. They can be done just as well in any other solar system. Sure, it'd be convenient to have a friendly planet nearby to give the crew who're not needed for the repair work some leave planet-side and get them out of the way, but that's entirely optional.”

Cam almost winced. It seemed even Earth's status as a 'friendly planet' was now in question. Dammit, they needed to stop pushing him. Sheppard was obviously more than happy to push back. He considered saying something, but he really had no idea what he _could_ say at this point. He'd made his position clear in their earlier meeting, and he'd been told, politely, to keep his mouth shut. And he knew he was liked and respected by the people here, but they outranked him severely, and they would not take kindly to his showing the Lantians that there was division among their apparently united stand. If O'Neill or Landry gave him the slightest hint, the slightest opening... but they hadn't, so far.

Caldwell leaned forward aggressively. 

“So, what are _you_ planning to do? When your President orders you to hand over the ship and to return to your proper place, what are you going to do? Disobey orders? I understand you've got practise with that. So, what's this? A mutiny? Or is Atlantis going to declare its independence?” His tone was mocking, but Cam saw with alarm that Sheppard's expression turned calm and considering again.

“As you're so fond of saying, _Caldwell_ , that's not my call to make.”

“What do you mean?” Caldwell snapped back, from his expression only realizing the lack of rank afterwards.

“I'm Supreme Commander of the Confederation. That means my word is law in all matters military. Independence for Lantis is neither a military nor strictly a Confederation matter. I'm not authorized to decide that.”

“Then what _are_ you authorized to do?” Landry asked before Caldwell could find a retort.

“I've been authorized to share information pertinent to the Wraith-threat with you and to establish trade relations with Earth and negotiate deals on behalf of Lantis. What I promise you, Lantis is bound to deliver.” His voice had turned oddly formal, and Cam was under the impression that this wasn't the first time Sheppard had said something to this effect. 

“Trade agreements?” Landry asked sharply. “That rather presupposes Atlantis' independence, don't you think?” 

Sheppard cocked his head. “I guess you might look at it that way. But as I said, I'm not authorized to make an official declaration of independence.”

“Then who is?” Landry wanted to know. 

Sheppard raised an eyebrow. “Why, the leader of Atlantis of course. Only Elizabeth can make that decision.”

“But she's in Atlantis,” Caldwell snapped. 

Sheppard nodded. “So she is. Which means, gentlemen, I think we'll need to postpone these negotiations until the status of Lantis is clear.”

“Why don't we just call her?” O'Neill drawled, speaking up for the first time in a while. Everyone looked at him. He made a vague, circular hand-gesture.

“Have the Daedalus beam the ZPM over from Antarctica, dial the gate and give her a call.” He spread his hands. “Problem solved.”

It took Sheppard only a blink to rally in the silence that spread through the meeting room. “I think that's a great idea, General. Why don't we do that?”

***


	2. Chapter 2

Half an hour after Jack's suggestion, Cam stared up at the screen in the meeting room with everyone else at a feed from the control room and watched the gate spin as they dialled Atlantis. God, they were dialling Atlantis again! After all this time...!

The eighth chevron locked, and the wormhole whooshed, then settled down. He stared at the wavering, water-like event horizon. There, on the other end, was another galaxy. Sheppard, down in the control room, leaned over Walter's shoulder to send his IDC, and the speakers crackled as a communications channel was established. 

“Commander? Is that you?!”

Cam saw a slight smile appear on Sheppard's lips. 

“Hey there, Chuck. Yeah, it's me. You stuck with the night shift again?”

There was a sigh from the other end. “Seriously, boss, never bet against Elena. The woman is a fiend, I swear.” 

Sheppard chuckled at that. “Could've told you _that_ , buddy. Listen, can I speak to Elizabeth?”

“Sure,” 'Chuck' agreed. “Not like she ever sleeps. Dr Weir to the gate room. Dr Weir to the gate room, please, Commander Sheppard dialling in.” There was a short pause. “She's on her way, be here in a moment, boss.” 

“Thanks, Chuck. So, the city still standing?”

“Well, you know how it is... the north pier's _still_ flooded, and something exploded in Chemistry lab 2 last week. No biggie, but they're still trying to scrub the soot out of the door controls so it stops opening and closing randomly. Oh, and Ben O'Leary brought back one of his weird plant samples from M4-877, and the spores got into the air vents, and then everyone was high for, like, two hours. You should've been there, it was hilarious. Teyla was dancing.”

“Awww,” Sheppard made, “that I'd have liked to see.”

“It was awesome. Oh, here's Dr Weir.”

“Thank you, Chuck,” came Dr Weir's voice, warm and gracious and familiar, sounding just the way Cam remembered her from the few times he'd met her. “John? Is that you?” Cam startled at the familiar address, and at the depth of emotion in the name, the sheer _joy_. He saw Landry and O'Neill exchange equally startled glances and raised eyebrows. Then he looked back up at the screen, saw the smile curling into existence on Sheppard's face, saw the man's shoulders settle, relax in something that looked a hell of a lot like relief.

“Elizabeth. It's good to hear your voice.”

“Likewise, John. Where are you calling from? Wait, is that...” There was a little hitch of breath on the other end of the com channel. “ _Earth_?! How?”

Sheppard smiled again. “Rodney,” he said simply, dryly, as if that said it all. And apparently it did, because Dr Weir answered with a single “Ah!”, carrying a wealth of meaning. 

Sheppard turned to Walter. “Can we get a visual channel here?”

Walter nodded. “Yes, of course.” A few buttons later, Dr Weir's face appeared on their screens down in the control room, and the one in the meeting room split to show both the control room feed and the one from Atlantis. She looked... exactly like she had when she left. Not a hair on her head seemed to be different. 

“John,” she nodded at Sheppard, flicked her eyes over to where her own screen must've shown her the two feeds. “Rodney, Ronon. General Landry, General O'Neill, it is good to see you alive and well. And is that Colonel Mitchell?”

“It is indeed,” Landry replied. “And this is General Caldwell. It's good to see you alive as well, Dr Weir.”

For a moment, an odd little smile flickered across her face, but she nodded. 

“It's good to be alive, General. Now, what's the reason for your call? I doubt you would spend your no doubt limited energy resources to exchange pleasantries, as welcome as they are.” Her eyes went back to Sheppard.

“Right.” Sheppard cleared his throat. “You could say Scenario B2's come up.” 

Her eyes widened a bit, then softened. “I see. Oh John...” She looked at him with compassion, as if he were a man in pain, while Sheppard stared back, face stony, the earlier humour drained away. Cam found himself wondering what was going on between them... whether something _was_ going on. 

Weir turned her eyes to Landry and O'Neill. 

“Am I to understand then, gentlemen, that our continued presence in the city is in question?”

Landry appeared surprised, but then nodded slowly.

“Well, the order's not been given yet, but the President has indicated that a recall of the expedition will be issued in the near future.” 

Weir raised an eyebrow.

“And what is the IOA's stand on that?”

“They have already signalled that they will be following the President's lead in the matter.”

“I see,” Weir repeated. “I'm sure Commander Sheppard has informed you of the tactical significance of our presence here in Atlantis in the war against the Wraith?”

“We understand, Dr Weir. But fact is that we just barely managed to fend the Wraith off here on Earth a few days ago, and, obviously, the President's, and the IOA's, priority at the moment is to make sure such a situation does not arise again. Therefore, the most prudent course of action is to recall you, analyse and implement all the impressive discoveries you have no doubt made here on Earth, and also allow all of you some well-deserved r&r, and then re-evaluate the conditions of our presence in the Pegasus galaxy.”

“And if we have no wish to return to Earth? _You_ have to understand, gentlemen, that we have made many friends here, friends we don't wish to simply abandon to the Wraith, who, I might add, are not a distant possibility here in Pegasus, but an inevitability.”

“Please, Dr Weir. No one says that you can never return to Atlantis. Just that the expedition's mission statement will have to be re-thought. In the long run, you will benefit from this. I understand that you have lost many expedition members because the military contingent and your resources were not sufficient for the war you suddenly found yourselves in the middle of. Your survival despite all odds demands the highest respect. But now that we have sufficient ZPM power, we have many more possible choices open to us, and these choices will need careful consideration before they can be implemented. However, I am confident that a larger military presence would be in your interest, and that of your friends in Pegasus.”

Weir raised an eyebrow, somehow managing to convey that she, politely and respectfully, considered what Landry had just said a load of bullshit. 

“I'm afraid I might have chosen my words too carefully.” She leaned towards the camera. “We _will_ not leave Atlantis. It is our home. We will not return to Earth for anything other than a brief visit.”

Cam suppressed a shiver. That was it. There was no way to dance diplomatically around a statement like this. He saw Landry frowning, bushy eyebrows shading his eyes, and O'Neill's eyes were narrow, considering. Caldwell's lips were a pale, hard line. McKay was fidgeting where he sat, and Sheppard... Sheppard stood there, the dark outline of his body on the screen seemingly relaxed, eyes on the control room screens, waiting. For a moment, it was very quiet in the meeting room.

“I ask you to reconsider that statement, Dr Weir. As I said, the order hasn't been given yet, but it will be, and it will come from the President himself. Those members of the expedition who are both citizens of the United States and members of the military will have to obey that order or make themselves subject to a court martial. Since the IOA will follow the President's course of action, a similar situation will arise for the members of the armed forces of other nations when their respective heads of state or leading military officials order them back to Earth. Surely you do not wish to put your people into such a situation? Of course, procedures are already under way to revoke everyone's legal status as 'declared dead'. We would be grateful if you could provide us with a list of which members have actually died.”

“We will see about that list,” Weir replied. “First, I have to ask _you_ to reconsider your position. We have taken the matter of a possible return under Earth's jurisdiction and legislation into consideration as soon as it became clear that we would attempt to send the Cyrinius to your help. We have come up with several different scenarios, depending on what the Cyrinius would find on Earth, and have considered our options. As the Commander has stated, scenario B2 seems to fit the present situation. You have taken the matter into your own hands and are presenting us with the choice to either return to our previous places of employment and national membership, or to prove to you beyond a shadow of a doubt just how serious we are about our presence in Pegasus. If that is the case, I assure you, we are prepared to do _whatever_ it takes– that includes cutting all ties with you if necessary.”

“Dr Weir... Elizabeth. Please,” Landry said, frowning. “Surely there's no need to take things that far.”

“There isn't, General, if you accept that a recall is out of the question.”

Landry's face hardened. “I have my orders, Dr Weir.”

Weir tilted her head slightly, and her eyes met Sheppard's. “Very well. In that case: All Earth-born personnel have taken the vote, and the results have been counted.”

Cam found himself holding his breath at the steely determination in her voice. 

“I am proud to announce that, with sixty-nine votes to none, three abstaining, Atlantis has voted for its independence.”

Silence filled the meeting room once more. Cam saw O'Neill's eyebrows rise, Landry frown again, Caldwell's eyes open wide in astonishment. Apparently, he, at least, really hadn't believed the Atlantians would do it. But then, he was the one who had spent the least time actually in their company, hadn't heard them talk about Atlantis and Pegasus and the people there. 

Cam couldn't say he was particularly surprised. He was also glad he wouldn't have to be the one to brief the President and the IOA on this development. But... sixty-nine to none, three abstaining? Firstly, holy shit, _no one_ , absolutely _no one_ wanted to return? Secondly... that added up to seventy-two people who took the vote, seventy-two people who had been born on Earth. He swallowed. That was less than half the people who had left ten years ago. God, more than every second of them had been killed! And still, still they wanted to stay there?

He looked at Sheppard on the screen and even through the camera feed he could make out a faint smile on the man's face, pleased, almost _happy_. He certainly wasn't one of the three who had abstained. Weir was smiling back, the two of them sharing something through the screen. Then Weir raised her head and looked at the rest of them again. 

“The Founding Charter of the Confederation of Sentient Species of the Pegasus Galaxy is hereby binding law for all citizens of the city of Atlantis, to be extended or amended as situations require for the time being. Ruling positions and chiefs of staff will continue on as is, and decisions will be made as they have been for the past ten years. John, you are still authorized to establish trade relations with Earth as official representative of Atlantis and the Confederation, if they are willing. I'll leave the extend of any cooperation up to your judgement. Gentlemen.” She swept the meeting room with a gaze. “Any unwarranted aggression towards the Commander or anyone under his command, including, but not limited to, imprisonment, torture or death, will be seen as a hostile act against Atlantis and may draw severe retaliation. Consider yourselves warned as decreed by Article Seven of the Founding Charter.”

“Oh for crying out loud!” O'Neill exclaimed. “I assure you, Liz, no one's planning on killing anyone!”

“It was a warning, Jack, nothing more. Please don't arrest anyone either. That wouldn't go over much better, I'm afraid.”

“Just a moment, please, Dr Weir,” Landry spoke up. “You have no authority to make such a declaration.”

Weir raised her eyebrows at him. “My people disagree. Certainly the expedition's manifest as written by the IOA does not give me the authority. But I'm afraid we've abandoned the IOA regulations many years ago. Atlantis has been self-governed, for all intents and purposes, for eight years, gentlemen. You are speaking with me in this position because I have been voted into office by general election. Who are you to tell me what authority I have or do not have?”

Cam shivered a little. Weir was the _diplomat_. And here she was, at least as stubborn as Sheppard. 

Caldwell was blinking at the monitor like he was having trouble believing what he was seeing. O'Neill looked like he couldn't decide whether he was amused or annoyed. Landry passed a hand over his face. 

“Dr Weir…”

Weir smiled pleasantly. “Hank. I am perfectly willing to spend the next twenty-six minutes of this call telling you 'No', but I'm sure we all have more productive things to do. So I suggest you take some time to consider how you wish to engage with us. And kindly do let the President and the IOA know that we _are_ willing and able to defend this claim. We have no wish to part as enemies.” She leaned forward, narrowed her eyes. “But we do _not_ tolerate aggression against our people or property, no matter your reasons.”

What the hell? Really… who was this woman? Cam hadn't known her well, but he remembered someone who persuaded rather than threatened, someone who defused volatile situations, not someone who drew lines in the sand. 

“ _Seriously_ ,” O'Neill spoke up again, “no plans for aggression here, okay? Now if you'll excuse me, I'm gonna go have a chat with the President, see if we can't sort this out.”

Weir smiled, all graciousness again. “Thank you, Jack.” Her eyes flicked to Landry as O'Neill rose, nodded at the table at large, and strode out of the meeting room. “With your permission, General, if I could have just a few moments with the Commander?” 

Landry frowned for a moment, but then sighed and nodded. “Of course. Politics aside, it was a pleasure to talk to you, Dr Weir, after all this time. Hopefully, it won't be so long next time.”

“Thank you, General,” Dr Weir replied. “It is a great relief to know you are all still there and our mission was a success.” 

She turned to Sheppard, who took a small step forward down in the control room. “Let's be brief, John. I just wanted to ask what your situation is.”

Sheppard met her eyes solemnly. “We've lost a lot of people, but the ship's largely alright. A few days of repairs, the usual.” He took a deep breath. “Elizabeth, we have reason to believe that sub-sector K3 is empty. And I mean, _empty_. If we're right, it was culled completely, and the entire Wraith population came here.”

Weir's eyes went wide. “Ancestors, John! What are you saying? What's happened? Our sources spoke of two hives.”

Sheppard smiled wryly. “Well, yeah. At first there were two. Then there were another seven.”

“ _Seven_?”

Sheppard nodded. “We'll debrief properly when we have the chance. For now, we're alive, mostly, Earth's okay, we took out the hives. Please brief Keras on the situation, have him deploy scouts immediately, see if there's any survivors in K3, and if we can grab the territory for the Confederation.” 

Weir nodded. “Of course, John. Do you have a list...?”

Eyes on Weir, Sheppard recited a long list of names with no pause, no hesitation. They were unfamiliar, Pegasus names– the names of the dead from the battle against the Wraith. It made Cam feel even worse about what his government had just tried to do, this reminder that perfect strangers had put their lives on the line for Earth– and lost them. 

Dr Weir listened without interruption, her face grave. She only allowed herself one long blink when Sheppard finished. 

“I will inform their next of kin, and see to it that Keras has his orders. Take care, and we'll see each other in a few months' time, I hope. Atlantis misses you.”

That startled a small smile out of Sheppard. 

“I miss _her_ ,” he admitted. “We'll call in again if possible.”

Dr Weir nodded. “Please do. A path without shadows and hearth fires at the end of your journey, Commander.”

“And for you.”

They nodded at each other, than Weir turned away from the screen, and the connection cut as the wormhole disengaged.

***

Cam was the one to escort Sheppard, Dex and McKay back to their ship. Dex seemed oblivious to what'd just happened, but McKay kept shooting him smug looks, when he wasn't eyeing Sheppard suspiciously. Cam wasn't sure _what_ precisely had happened between them in the moment when Sheppard shut him up, but it'd certainly worked– McKay hadn't said a word since. Sheppard, for his part, was striding along with long, loose steps, thumbs hooked into his belts, expression placid. They said their good-byes cordially enough, Sheppard even gave him one of his quirky half-smiles, and then the Atlantians whizzed away in their ship while Cam stood in a band of bright afternoon sunlight and watched it disappear into the sky.

His radio crackled in his ear.

“Mitchell.”

“Sir,” came Walter's tinny voice, “there's a phone call for you. It's your father.”

Cam automatically affirmed and turned around to head back into the mountain, his thoughts confused as he tried to make sense of that. His father? Why would his father call him on base? Wait, how _could_ his father even call him on base?! It wasn't like the Stargate bunker's phone numbers were in the phone book... oh, right. Declassified. He almost walked into a wall. Did that mean his parents had been informed of his actual posting? Well, they knew he was under confidentiality agreements... or had been. God, no one had briefed him on what had been declassified and what hadn't! He gave up trying to make sense of it, and went straight to General Landry's office. 

He was greeted with a grunt and a frown while the General stared at a sheet of paper as if it had personally offended him.

“Sir? My father's on the phone...”

Landry blinked at him, ran a tired hand over his face, and waved him into the office. Ten minutes later, Cam left the general to his papers and picked up his call.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Dad...”

***


	3. Chapter 3

“John?” 

John turned around from where he was making his way through the dart bay towards the transporter doors to look at Rodney, who had been, now that he thought about it, remarkably silent all through the flight up to the Cyrinius. He glanced at Ronon, following sedately behind Rodney, but only got a shrug. 

“Yeah?” he prompted when nothing more was forthcoming. 

Rodney looked something between sullen and embarrassed, which was a frequent enough combination for him, hand nervously fidgeting along the butt of his gun before he finally looked up, expression grim and determined.

“Look, I'm sorry, okay?” he exploded, complete with rampant hand-waving. “I know I shouldn't have said so much, but... but, you know me! I got mad, and, and, and I'm not cut out for this diplomacy thing, and you know that, and I got carried away and are you still mad?”

John blinked through the rapid torrent of words, long practice helping him pick out the pertinent points, and then took the few steps back to where Rodney was standing.

“I'm not mad at you, Rodney.”

That got him a suspicious look, as if he had suggested that, surely, lemons couldn't be all that bad.

“You _were_ mad,” Rodney pointed out. 

John considered that for a moment, then nodded. “Yeah, I was.” He gave Rodney a short frown. “Seriously, you should know better after all this time. But it worked out well enough, didn't it?” He shrugged.

“Then what was with the silent treatment?”

Now John was puzzled. “What silent treatment?”

Rodney rolled his eyes at him. “You didn't speak a word to me the entire flight up!”

John rolled his eyes back. “It's just a twenty-minute flight! I wasn't giving you the silent treatment, I just didn't feel the need to talk!”

Rodney gave him that suspicious look again. “So you're not still mad?”

John threw his hands up in exasperation, shot a glance at Ronon, who just grinned, arms folded over his chest, enjoying the show. 

“No, Rodney, I'm not still mad.”

The suspicious look slowly faded and Rodney huffed, crossing his arms. “So you're not going to shoot me?”

John frowned, puzzled. “What gave you the impression I was going to _shoot_ you?”

“Helloo?” Rodney said in a really annoying sing-song tone. “The look on your face? Seriously, I've seen you _kill_ people with that look on your face!”

John blinked, since he had no idea what look Rodney was referring to, or, for that matter, what he looked like when he killed people. 

“Well, I was pretty mad. But I wouldn't _shoot_ you, Rodney.”

“Hah! You shot me before! Like, two days after we met!”

“In the _leg_! And only because you told me to!”

“But, you shot me!”

John crossed his arms and glared. Seriously, how could Rodney be smug about _that_? Sometimes the man annoyed the hell out of him and John wondered why he ever put up with him. Maybe he shouldn't be so quick to discount shooting him... naw. No matter how annoying and infuriating and _stupid_ he sometimes was, he was still John's best friend. So John rolled his eyes, unfolded his arms and gripped Rodney in a headlock, eliciting a yelp and more hand-flailing. 

He laughed at the indignant glare directed his way when he let Rodney back up, wheezing and trying to flatten his hair back down. Rodney straightened and frowned at him.

“Are you sure you're all right? Why are you in such a good mood?”

John shrugged as he hooked his thumbs under his gun belts and started a relaxed saunter over to the transporter.

“We're alive, the Wraith are dead, Lantis is still standing, and Elizabeth declared us independent.” He made a vague, see-sawing hand motion he belatedly realized he'd probably picked up from Rodney and quickly tugged his hand back down, pretending he hadn't just imitated one of Rodney's more goofy mannerisms. “No more of this political tip-toeing around. Finally, we can be who we are. Well, within reason,” he amended. “But we don't have to worry so much about stepping on toes any more. It's almost like a normal trading mission now.”

“Hmph.” Rodney trotted along for a few silent steps, then stepped into the transporter and leaned against the wall as John flicked the bright dot for the bridge. “I guess you're right. At least they can't get their grubby hands on my ZPM recharger now without paying for it. Though I guess they're gonna keep our nice, recharged ZPM...”

John shrugged and smirked. “But we've got theirs, and we've got four other empty ones which we can _all_ recharge...”

An almost orgasmic look of delight spread across Rodney's face.

“Yes, we do... God, _five_ ZPMs, can you imagine...? Don't get all carried away, though,” he chided then, as if _John_ was the one practically salivating at the mere thought, “We're going to do this properly the next time, slowly and with tests. It was pure luck that that first one didn't blow up, I'm not going off half-cocked like that again! And certainly not in a jumper like that...” He shuddered dramatically.

John nodded. “Yeah, God, the poor jumper, I took a look at it this morning...”

Rodney looked at him with wide, hurt eyes. “'Poor jumper'? ' _Poor jumper_ '?!” His voice did that thing were it hit a ridiculously high pitch in his outrage. “Did you seriously just say ' _poor jumper_ '?? What about _me_??”

John laughed as he stepped out of the transporter, back to the corridor, and, because he could and Rodney was just sometimes so damn _cute_ when he was offended, grabbed the back of Rodney's neck and drew him into a long, sloppy kiss. 

“If you think that'll be enough to distract me,” Rodney continued as soon as John let up again, “you really, oh, hi guys.”

John blinked, then finally turned around to find they had quite an audience. Jinto and Wex were standing in the middle of the corridor, doing the politely-amused Athosian head-tilt John was used to getting from Teyla, and a whole group of Travellers, three women and two men, were giving them dirty grins. 

John raised an eyebrow at the assembly. 

“I take it things went well?” Jinto asked. 

John shrugged. “In a manner of speaking. It started off pretty badly, but then we dialled Lantis and Elizabeth declared our independence.”

Jinto and Wex high-fived, the Travellers cheered, and by the time John made it to the bridge to give the ship-wide announcement, preparations for the necessary party were already under way. 

John felt a cautious wash of happiness in his stomach when he sprawled along one of their low couches in the lounge later that day, while the sun was setting behind the rim of the planet, warm mug of tea in his hands, laughing and joking with _his_ people. It wasn't going to be on the scale of a “we're still alive”-party, of course not, not so soon after the last one, but it was beautiful and relaxing, just hanging out with everyone in the living areas of their ship, chatting and catching up, simply appreciating the company. All their Pegasus-born crew wildly approved of the declaration of Lantis' independence. Most of them were confused as to why there was even a question in the matter, since Earth had obviously given up on them long ago. 

It felt good. Maybe too good– John felt like he was _home_ , like cutting official ties with Earth had lifted a weight from his shoulders. He felt _free_. And that– they didn't even know yet how Earth would react, how this would play out, how permanent it was. 

He wished he could talk to Elizabeth, get her input. Under any other circumstances, he'd be certain that this was a done deal. She'd declared independence, and that made it law. But this... this was Earth. Would she be willing to re-negotiate if Earth offered certain concessions? 

And John didn't _want_ her to. Trade with Earth, sure. The ability to send messages to friends and family on Earth, to visit– yeah. But to be part of that power structure, to have to bow his head and take orders from anyone but Elizabeth again? He wasn't sure he could do it. 

Rodney came over and dumped a sleepy four-year-old Hanah on his chest while he slumped down, cross-legged, next to John's legs, leaning his head into John's hip with a groan. He was dishevelled and a bit sweaty from playing with both Jeannie and Hanah. The girl happily curled up on John and fell asleep, dark-blond wisps of hair a halo around her round face. John secured her with an arm around her middle and reached out the other hand to scratch the short stubble at the back of her exhausted father's neck. John's back would probably kill him in half an hour, at the latest, but for the moment, he was okay with a couple dozen pounds of child on his chest. 

With a sigh, he pushed his thoughts away. For now, he'd act on the information he had. And another two weeks, and then the Cyrinius would hopefully be deep-space worthy again, and they could all get back to where they belonged. John looked down at the child on his chest, and smiled. He couldn't wait to get home and visit his own little monsters again. For now, Rodney's brats would have to do as a substitute. And they were great substitutes, astonishingly adorable when one considered where half their genes came from. It was probably a good thing, John thought, that their mothers preferred to do most of the child raising themselves. Although, to be fair, Rodney had taken to being a father better than anyone could have expected. Sure, the first six months after Jeannie's birth he'd spent in a state of near constant panic attacks, but after that, he settled into it with remarkable ease. Well, Kimra's half-incredulous, half-amused attitude towards his hysterics had probably helped a lot, too.

***

Rodney had barely taken two steps into John's quarters when the man grabbed him and started to molest him. Not that Rodney could say he minded– much. Okay, fine, so actually, he didn't mind at all, he had to concede when John's hands yanked his shirt out of his trousers and slid inside, warm and rough with callouses, up over his waist and sides, while his lips, open and pliant on Rodney's, invited him to tongue-fuck him in just that way Rodney knew drove John up the walls. Rodney was very happy to oblige him.

Rodney grabbed John's hips for better leverage, fingers digging into belt buckles and leather bindings, and kissed back for all he was worth. 

It was all heat and shared breath and closeness for several long minutes, until John pulled away with a rough, breathless laugh. He gave Rodney one of those looks, eyes dark and smirk sly and secretive and challenging, one of those “catch me if you can”, “fuck me if you dare” looks he claimed he wasn't doing on purpose, wasn't even aware of. Yeah, right.

John strolled over towards his bed, backwards, eyes never leaving Rodney's, and sprawled himself out on it, legs dangling over the edge, propped up on his elbows. 

For a moment Rodney just took him in, spread legs and slim hips, long torso and crazy black hair, dim light from the window reflecting bluish off of his uniform, highlighting every curve and every angle. 

Then John raised one slim black eyebrow at him, gave him that look that was some odd mixture of amusement, mockery and teasing, and Rodney marched over with rather less grace than John had displayed. But, well... grace wasn't his thing. John didn't seem to mind at all, as he smiled, eyes still promising dirty, dirty things, and reached up a hand to curl around Rodney's neck as he leaned down, standing between John's legs, for another kiss. 

They didn't break apart as Rodney crawled on top of John, and they manoeuvred themselves into a more length-wise position. They started to work on buckles and ties, their own and each other's, in a vaguely coordinated manner that owed most of its efficiency to a lot of practise. 

Rodney buried his face in the junction of John's neck and shoulder once he had tugged the uniform jacket away and shirt open, and inhaled deeply before putting something there that was more a bite then a kiss, open-mouthed and with teeth. John moaned, his fingers stilling and tightening in the fastenings of Rodney's pants, and he could feel the muscle flex under his lips as John leaned his head back to give him better access. He took full advantage, working his way back up, faint stubble a prickle against his tongue. 

They were both breathing fast when he pushed himself up on his arms, far enough to look down at John, the sound harsh in the quiet of the room. And, God, John looked good, dishevelled and panting, pale skin flushed, the green of his iris invisible around his blown pupils in the dim, cold light from the window, pretty lips reddened. 

John reached up, curled strong fingers into their favourite position at the back of Rodney's neck, and hauled him back in for another long, involved, wet kiss. This time it was Rodney who moaned, the sound mostly lost in John's mouth. 

They had to part for a few moments to struggle all the way out of their clothes, and Rodney used the opportunity to avail himself of the ample supply of condoms and lube John kept next to the bed in a pretty little hand-woven Athosian basket Teyla had given him with big, innocent eyes and an almost-suppressed smirk for his birthday in year 4, after Ronon had managed to knock a candle over on the innocuous paper box he'd used before during team movie night, burning it to a crisp. It was one of the few times Rodney had seen John _actually_ blush, though of course he did his best to pretend he wasn't. Possibly _because_ he was embarrassed, he had used the little basket for its implied purpose ever since.

They crawled under John's bed covers, an assortment of light-weight, easy-to-clean Ancient-style fabric, a soft Athosian blanket, and two furs for extra warmth. 

Rodney was pretty sure he was rushing the preparation, but John wasn't complaining, quite the contrary, and anyway, the man had a ridiculously high disregard for physical discomfort, whether in bed or outside it. Another day, Rodney might have reined himself in, taken more time, but this was the first time he had John to himself, all to himself, both of them conscious, since their most recent near-death experience, and he wasn't in the mood to be patient. Neither was John, from the sounds he made and the urgency with which his hands tugged on Rodney's arms and hips to get him to abandon preparation in favour of getting on with things.

And, God, it was _so_ good to have John under him like this, arching and moaning, eyes glazed and half-closed with lust, hard thighs wrapped around Rodney's waist. No matter how often they did this, he was always amazed to find himself here, like this, allowed to touch, to have a creature as beautiful and dangerous as John Sheppard. He didn't understand it, didn't get why John, who could, and frequently did, have anyone he wanted, looked at him the way he did, why he kept coming back to _Rodney_ of all people for this, Rodney, who had always failed to attract people, who knew he'd never been one of the good-looking ones, never been the kind of guy the girls giggled and whispered about in school corridors, the ones they wanted to be asked out by. Most of the women he had met in his life, the ones he was attracted to at least, had treated his advances at best with surprise, at worst with open disdain or even disgust. Only in Pegasus had that changed. And, truly, he'd never actually considered men as possible sex partners, but as far as he was aware, none of them had ever approached _him_. Until John. John, who was everything Rodney had always openly disdained and secretly envied. John, who had looks to do a male model proud, who flirted with effortless ease, who was tough, and military, and a pilot, who liked football and beer and physical exercise, who loved _surfing_ , for crying out loud! John, who had women practically falling over themselves to get into his bed. John, who gave him inviting, flirtatious glances, who occasionally put just a bit of sway into his hips when he walked away from Rodney, John, who looked at him as if Rodney was the most delicious thing he'd ever seen, John, who spread his legs and arched greedily into Rodney, John, wanton and needy and unashamed in his pleasure. 

Rodney shuddered, and had to still for a moment to keep from coming right then and there, his fingers slipping on the wet skin over John's pointy hip-bones. John gave a protesting whimper, pressed himself closer to Rodney's hips, his fingers digging painfully into Rodney's shoulder. He was frowning when Rodney looked up, glaring, really. 

“God, Rodney! Don't stop!” His voice was a breathless rasp, and that was rather counter-productive, Rodney thought as another involuntary shudder went down his spine. 

“Well, excuse me for not wanting this over with right now!” Rodney snapped back, words just as ragged. “Just give me a minute, would you?” 

John almost-grinned and dropped his head back down on the pillow. 

“Starting to develop a stamina-problem in your old age?”

Rodney glared and slapped John on the chest, then thrust hard in retaliation. From the deep moan it drew, that probably wasn't an effective strategy to deter the teasing. So Rodney went back to fucking John through the mattress, because then, at least, he was too occupied to talk. 

“Shut up and look pretty!” he snapped, and John's surprised chuckle had vibrations travel through both of their bodies. 

Rodney didn't know what it meant that they were able to bitch and snipe at each other even in the middle of sex, but he was reasonably sure that it wouldn't be considered “normal”. Thankfully, worrying about normalcy had long ceased to be a priority in the Pegasus galaxy, and Rodney liked it much better that way. And John did shut up and look pretty.

Rodney found himself tracing his eyes over the familiar body under him, every curve of bone, every dip, every scar so well-known he could place them even though it was barely light enough in the room to see by. He ran his eyes up the long torso, the sharp shoulders, and was startled anew by John's young features. Even after two years of looking at that face almost every day, he hadn't gotten used to the new looks. Then John opened his eyes, gave him a sharp, lust-dark, amused look and a half-smirk, and for a moment, he could see the older John in his face, could see the lines that had started to bracket his mouth and the corners of his eyes, could see the rare, silver specks that had appeared in that black mess of hair, along his temples and over those pointy ears. He found himself smiling back and leaned down to kiss John, awkwardly amidst the motion of their bodies, because John was still _John_ , no matter what he looked like, and Rodney had never had a better friend than him. 

John gave him a faint smile as if he knew exactly what Rodney was thinking, and then arched his back in that demanding way of his. So Rodney rearranged his grip on John's hips, shifted slightly for better leverage, and resolved to not stop until John came screaming, the insufferable asshole. Because Rodney _was_ a genius, and he had long since made John his second-favourite science, and it was time to remind John just why he considered himself an under-appreciated gift to mankind.

***

The next morning, John thought off the alarm and just luxuriated for a few minutes longer in his bed, because this, _this_ was the way to start a day, headache-free and sore in all the right places, Rodney a softly-snoring weight at his back, breath rushing hotly over John's neck and one shoulder-blade, a heavy arm around his waist pinning him to the sheets. However, thoughts of the real world kept intruding, and John was forced to abandon his little corner of contentment in favour of a shower and a morning run with Ronon, to get ready to face the music. Joy.

***

“Yes, General. I see.” John leaned on the wall and bent over to take a few deep breaths.

“I'm not interrupting anything, Commander, am I?” O'Neill's voice came, dry and amused, through his ear piece.

“Just my morning run,” John answered, feeling a grin spread on his face.

“Ah. Sorry 'bout that.”

“It's quite all right, General.” John had a suspicion that he might actually grow to like O'Neill a great bit if given the chance, had had that impression ever since he'd first met the man, provided he got to know him well enough to actually trust him. Because something about O'Neill's overly-casual attitude, about the way it was hard to tell whether he was joking or deadly serious, just rubbed John the wrong way, too, suggested a mind far more cunning than O'Neill was usually willing to show. O'Neill was hard to figure out, hard to predict, and that made the paranoia living in John's gut sit up and take notice. On a very primal level, O'Neill struck him as dangerous, probably the most dangerous member of the entire SGC, and so, John couldn't quite allow himself to relax around the man, even as he sensed something of a kindred spirit.

“Well, I'll be down at 1100 hours, then,” John continued, his breathing levelling out. 

“All right, Commander. Colonels Mitchell and Carter are going to pick you up and then we're going to beam you over to Washington.”

“Understood.”

***

“Excuse me?” Rodney's hand stopped half-way to his mouth, ready to toss down a palmful of assorted dried berries. “You're going to do _what_?”

“Go to Earth,” John repeated patiently, chewing on his own breakfast with relish. “The President and the I.O.A. want a meeting with me, what with the whole independency thing. O'Neill radioed up this morning. So I'll be going to Washington today.”

“ _Alone_?!”

John sighed. “Yes, Rodney, alone. The invitation was extended to me. What sort of message would it send if I arrived with a weapon-bristling escort after Elizabeth just declared us independent? We're not gunning for an intergalactic conflict here, and I'd like to avoid any impression that we are. They'll be jumpy enough without our displaying open suspicion of their motives. Besides, this is _Earth_. We know the rules here, and they don't usually include cold-blooded torture and murder. At least not on the front lawn of the White House.”

“You sure?” Ronon asked, scraping his spoon along the bottom of the bowl to get at the rest of his Athosian porridge. “McKay's got a point.”

John raised his eyebrow at them. “Gee, guys, I know paranoia is our friend, but, _c'mon_! 'Sides, I can take care of myself.”

Rodney snorted. “Yes, Sheppard, we all know you're a veritable super hero, but there's still only going to be one of you and dozens of them. You'd never even _consider_ this if this wasn't Earth!”

“But this is Earth! I'm gonna be _fine_ , sheesh! It's one afternoon! Mitchell and Carter and O'Neill'll be there.”

Ronon shrugged. “If you say so. Tell them if they hurt you, I'll kill them.”

“Elizabeth already gave them the warning yesterday,” John pointed out.

“She was too polite about it,” Rodney grumbled. 

John grabbed a last, grape-sized Sewa berry, dipped it into the small bowl of honey in the middle of their table, and got to his feet, chewing. 

“Well, I'll go grab my fresh shirt and shine my boots, and then I'll be off. See ya later, guys.”

Rodney just nodded, mouth full, and Ronon gave him one of his all-purpose grunts. John left them to fight over the rest of breakfast.

***


	4. Chapter 4

As promised, Colonels Mitchell and Carter were waiting for him when he set down the jumper in the SGC hangar, both dressed to the nines in their dress blues. But then, they _were_ meeting the President. And O'Neill had warned him that there would be press. Strictly regulated press, but press nonetheless, what with the whole declassification going on. 

“Good day, Colonels.” He gave them a quick once over and a grin. “Looking good today.”

Carter blushed a little and fidgeted with the sleeve of her jacket, while Mitchell grinned back.

“Good day to you too, Commander. You look just like you always do.”

“Hey, I'm wearing my fresh shirt. And I cleaned my boots.” He pointed at them, a bit shinier than usual. Not that he didn't generally keep them clean. Leather needed to be taken care of, after all, if it was supposed to last a couple of years. And with their limited resources, their boots were certainly meant to last a while.

Mitchell followed his finger with his gaze, then looked up with a smirk.

“I... see. And you make it sound like you own only two shirts or something.”

John gave him a raised eyebrow. “I _do_ only own two shirts.”

Mitchell blinked. “Seriously?”

John shrugged. “Clothes are expensive. Besides, what do you need more than two shirts for?”

Before Mitchell or Carter could come up with a reply to that, their radios crackled and Caldwell informed them that they were about to be beamed over to Washington. They confirmed, and seconds later, John stood in the entrance hall of the White House. By the Ancients, he really wanted that technology. Rodney had tried to extrapolate a long-range beaming technology from Lantis' transporters, but so far, he hadn't gotten anywhere. This Asgard tech was pretty damn awesome.

The first obstacle of the day arose before they even stepped in the door: security wanted John's guns. John refused.

“Look,” he said after he'd been coldly informed that _no one_ unauthorized entered the White House armed, “either I'm keeping my guns, or I'm leaving.”

“Um, Sheppard...” Mitchell said. 

John turned to him. “Those are not the terms I was invited here under. I agreed to come by myself. By myself and unarmed? That's a whole different ballgame, and not one I agreed to. So.” He turned back to the security guard. “Here's how it goes: You call someone who's in charge, and you're gonna tell them that these are my terms: I keep my weapons, or I'm turning right around and we renegotiate the location, time and conditions of this meeting.”

John kept his weapons. He thought he might– the President was a busy man, after all, and considering the short notice and the presence of the press, this event had clearly been given priority. 

They were led through the corridors, the security guards stationed around the place eyeing John unhappily. 

The White House wasn't as large as he'd expected. Oh, it was _nice_ – nicer than most buildings he'd been in in the last ten years. It just wasn't as nice as Lantis. But then, he'd never seen anything that could compare to Lantis.

They were led to the Oval Office, where they were met by a group of people, expensive suits and insignia-laden uniforms one and all. John recognized Landry and O'Neill, but the rest of them were all strangers.

As they entered, John realized a rather large problem he hadn't even thought of. He leaned over to Mitchell, who, thankfully, was walking right next to him. 

“Mitchell.” Mitchell turned his head a fraction to give him a questioning look.

“Which one's the President?” John asked very quietly. “And what's his name?”

Mitchell blinked once, slowly, but then pointed his chin at one man. “See that guy in the blue suit? Between General O'Neill and the four-star general in the green uniform? That's him. His name's Matthew White.”

“Thanks.”

There were introductions and handshakes, and then John was invited to take a seat on a couch, and offered coffee, which he accepted but had no intention to drink.

Mitchell took a seat next to him, the other generals took the couches around the coffee table, but the President took a seat behind his desk. John considered being insulted. Not only had he failed to meet John out front to invite him in personally, but he also didn't seat himself on an equal level. John took note of it, leaned back into the couch in his most comfortable, unimpressed sprawl, and pretended to take a sip of his coffee. 

There was the obligatory small talk, President White expressing his thanks for the help against the Wraith and his welcome back for John and his people.

John wondered whether someone had thought up all that diplomatic song and dance as a particularly inventive form of torture. He'd much rather be tromping across a hostile planet with poisonous plants, man-eating critters, and Wraith hot on his trail. Instead, he returned the thanks, deflected the implication that they were there to stay with some reference to how he hoped for a less eventful visit from now on. 

At least White didn't seem inclined to beat further around the bush, as he folded his hands and leaned forward. “Ah, yes, Commander. You're still set on going back, then? This declaration of the expedition's independence... it's not exactly something provided for in your mandate.”

John gave him a raised eyebrow. “Declarations of independence usually aren't, to my knowledge. Yes, we're returning– we have a war to fight.”

“Surely you'd benefit from Earth's assistance in that fight– fresh troops, the chance for people to go on leave, resources and supplies.”

Oh, so it was that tack again. Truthfully, the idea of trying to train and integrate some fresh-faced recruit, or, worse, a hard-bitten veteran of the Stargate Programme into their existing structures sounded like a nightmare to John. 

“There's certainly supplies we'd be interested in trading for,” John answered. “Any other assistance... that really depends on what you offer and what you'd ask for in return.” Teyla would've been able to phrase that so much more elegantly, John thought. 

President White gave a little sigh, met his eyes directly. “You've mentioned trade before. Let me be blunt: How serious are you about this independence?”

Yeah, that was the question, wasn't it? “As far as my people and I are concerned: Elizabeth said it. That makes it law. Whether she's willing to retract that– I highly doubt it. You'd have to ask her.”

“She authorized you to speak on behalf of Atlantis, didn't she?”

John gave him a bit of a flat look. “She authorized me to negotiate trade on behalf of Atlantis, which I will be happy to do with you or any representative you appoint.”

“Well, before we engage in any trade negotiations, we'll rather need to establish the need for them first, don't we? And that need depends on the legal status of Atlantis.”

“Independent,” John answered dryly. “But I'm sure Elizabeth will be amenable to speaking with you in person. As General O'Neill has correctly pointed out, you can dial Atlantis with the re-charged ZPM, and we'll be happy to provide you with an IDC for calling. I suggest you have your office arrange a suitable time and date with her office to answer your questions.”

There was some more of the same after that, but John stuck to the “have your people call her people”, which was really all he could do– this wasn't something he had the authority to decide, and he was perfectly happy with that state of affairs. So he was entirely unimpressed by the not-so-vague hints that if he took it upon himself to make unauthorized decisions in this matter, there'd be interesting career opportunities for him. He had to bite back a laugh at that. What did they imagine they could offer him? He had no interest in the civilian governance of Atlantis, and he was about as high-ranking in the military as you could be– Earth didn't even have an equivalent of his job. He hinted back as much, though he wasn't sure if it really sunk in– he didn't think so. Teyla would've managed, he thought again. But that was Teyla. 

Eventually, they gave up trying to get him to somehow undo Elizabeth's declaration of independence, and they ended the meeting cordially enough. He agreed to send in a copy of the Founding Charter, and an outline of Lantian governance and history– the official information pack they would've made available to any trading partner, carefully chosen so they didn't open them up to unnecessary danger and manipulation. It didn't cost him anything, but he played a little hard to get, there. It wouldn't hurt, making them feel like they got something out of this meeting.

After that, it was on to a reception with the press, lots of shaking hands and smiling and introductions and more _diplomacy_ , where he made small-talk, avoided more diplomatic pit-falls, and smiled, and smiled, and smiled. The reporters stared at him as if he was some form of exotic animal, and clearly had trouble wrapping their heads around the fact that he had spent the last decade in another galaxy, and he didn't think they, like anyone else there, really, quite got what a very, very powerful man he was back home. 

John didn't consider himself a particularly ambitious man. He'd never been in the military for the power of command, had never based his decisions on what would benefit his career, quite the contrary. Hell, when Sumner had died and he'd suddenly found himself military commander of the entire expedition, he'd been freaked. But he had also found that he'd settled very well into a position in charge, that he liked not having to take orders, to run things as he thought best. He liked dealing with the other people in charge on an equal footing. And over the last ten years, he had gotten used to being at the top of the food chain. Very slowly, he had also come to believe that he was reasonably good at it. Now he realized he'd also gotten used to a certain degree of notoriety. Wraith, Genii, alien planets they had never set foot on... they recognized his name, and if they treated him with disdain or hate, there was usually also a good dose of wary respect involved. 

Pegasus was, in many respects, a primal, barbaric place, and they had learned the hard way that, while they might like to view themselves as the nice guys, such a reputation wasn't going to earn them any protection, any respect. In a galaxy like Pegasus, the only reputation that garnered respect was one of danger. John found he was rather good at getting himself that sort of reputation, too, and he liked having it. He liked stepping into a room and having the other predators, whether human or other, take notice, circle him carefully. He liked to issue a threat and be taken at his word. 

These people here, in this room... they were soft. They looked at him, they looked at his young features and unusual uniform, and they didn't know what to make of him. They didn't evaluate the way he walked, didn't give him a once-over to estimate his strength, his degree of training, his speed, his reach. They didn't scan him to see where he kept his weapons, how long it would take him to reach them. They didn't expect him to attack, moved into his personal space with no awareness of how vulnerable they made themselves, how open. 

The most dangerous person other than himself, John was reasonably sure, was O'Neill. That man would know where all the exits were and where an attack was most likely to come from, if anyone should ask him. Of course, his age would slow him down in a fight, but John was still sure that he would be a force to be reckoned with. John wasn't quite sure where to put Mitchell. The guy had the training, no doubt, and the nerves. He kept himself in good shape, too, but for all that, he seemed like an awfully nice guy. Being a nice guy could be a definite disadvantage. Carter was competent, no doubt, but she'd prefer to build a bomb or rig something technical over direct confrontation, just like Rodney would. The other people in the room, including the Secret Service body guards, were, at best, amateurs, at worst, like the reporters, just plain civilians. Collateral damage waiting to happen. 

And none of them would be thinking about this the way John automatically did, none of them realized that, if they gave him reason to, he would pull his guns faster than they could blink and shoot them where they stood. And he just wasn't used to dealing with people who didn't consider him at least a little dangerous, not any more.

There were two kinds of people in Pegasus: predators, and prey. And that didn't hold just for Wraith and humans. Some peoples, like the Genii, like the Travellers, like the Lantians, were predators. Their first response if you pissed them off was to kill you. Some, like the Hoffans, like the Menarians, were prey. Their first response was to run and hide. Of course, there were grey areas. The Athosians were generally peaceful and happy to go about their hunting, farming and trading, and it took quite a bit of provocation before they decided they'd rather kill you. The Hoffans, or the Menarians, might run, but that didn't mean they weren't happy to stab you in the back if the opportunity arose. All in all, societies in Pegasus might have the trappings, the hierarchies and rituals, but at their core, they weren't _civilised_. Not in the way that Earth was, not in the way that these people were, milling about in this posh room, in their fancy uniforms, carrying champagne flutes and nibbling on hors d'oeuvres, full of fake smiles and shrill laughter. Yes, trade talks and new alliance negotiations were conducted with all the pomp and circumstance available, there was social alcohol and food consumption, there was political correctness... But no diplomatic occasion in Pegasus was too diplomatic to go armed– and not _just_ in case your new friends turned out to be back-stabbing scum bags.

***

Cam sipped at his champagne and watched Sheppard watch everyone else. The man was slouching against a wall, arms loosely crossed over his chest, face politely expressionless while his eyes roamed, flicking from person to person, from window to door, from president to security guard. He was obviously trying to be unobtrusive, to blend into the background, and he managed rather well, considering he stuck out like a sore thumb by his uniform alone. Not that Cam could blame him, after the way everyone had mobbed him earlier. Sheppard had displayed more social grace than he had expected as well, smiling at all the right times and shaking hands, exuding affable charm and polite interest.

Cam wandered over to lean against the wall beside the Commander. Sheppard greeted his arrival with an eyebrow raised in question.

“Wanna get outta here?” Cam swung the bottom of his glass to indicate the rest of the room.

“God, yes,” Sheppard agreed with feeling. 

“Think we can leave without creating a diplomatic incident?”

Sheppard cocked his head, considering this, his eyes straying to where the President stood with Generals O'Neill, Landry and Connelly of the Joint Chiefs. 

“Well, it won't be the _polite_ thing to do, leaving before the President,” Sheppard replied thoughtfully, “but I don't think anyone's gonna get shot or thrown into a dungeon for it, so I'd say it's worth it.” He detached himself from the wall. “Let's go and make our good-byes. 'Sides, I've got a spaceship to repair.”

Sam was in the middle of some discussion about the vitality of the research Area 51 did and its funding, or lack thereof, with Woolsey, some other top IOA officials, and a few other scientists, so she just waved Cam on when he asked whether she wanted to leave, too. O'Neill shot them dark, envious looks as they excused themselves from the President and his gaggle of generals. Cam said brief good-byes to a few more Air Force officers he knew and then they made their way out of the White House, past plenty of members of the Secret Service in dark suits whose eyes seemed to follow them with disapproval even if their faces were expressionless and stony. Cam suspected it was probably because of the two guns prominently riding at Sheppard's hips, and which Sheppard had not been willing to relinquish when he arrived. Now _that_ had had the potential to turn into a diplomatic incident, and it was a sign of how important Sheppard was suddenly considered to be, and how much the President wished for good relations with Pegasus that Sheppard had been allowed to keep his guns. Before Atlantis' declaration of independence Cam couldn't imagine that happening.

They left through a side door, of course, since it seemed like the entire journalistic population of the country was camped out in front of the White House, as close as security would let them, eager to catch a glimpse of anyone who might know something about the Stargate or aliens. 

Sheppard let out an audible sigh of relief as they made their way through the surrounding park towards the copse of trees that had been designated as the entrance and exit point for everyone who arrived or left via starship-beam.

“That was fun,” Cam drawled, shooting the man next to him a grin. Both of Sheppard's eyebrows arched up in an expression of utter scepticism. 

“No, it wasn't,” he said very reasonably. 

Cam laughed at the tone. “Okay, it wasn't really,” he agreed. “The champagne was good, though.” And maybe he'd had a little too much of it. He wasn't drunk by any means, but he might be a bit tipsy. Sheppard gave a non-committal grunt that wasn't really an agreement. 

Cam just grinned and enjoyed the afternoon sunlight as they crossed over the neatly-manicured lawn, every blade of grass the exact same length as the next. As always after another near-death experience, he was struck by surprise at random intervals that he was still there, still alive. And that, in this case, Earth was still there. Just now it hit him again, the sunshine, the feel of the grass crunching under his dress shoes, the sounds of birds and cars and people in the distance... Sheppard's black-clad, lanky form next to him. It had been barely a month that he'd known the man, but they'd hit it off right from the start, and Cam was pretty sure that, if given the chance, they would become good friends, beyond what saving-the-world planning sessions had already inspired. He liked the man, he was damn glad that he hadn't gotten himself blown up, and he hoped that, after the dust settled and all the politicking was done, their contact with Atlantis would be frequent enough that they could keep in touch.

***

John glanced sideways at Mitchell to catch a small, relaxed grin on the man's face, friendly and charming. A vague tingle of desire quivered in his stomach, and he found himself wondering whether Mitchell would look like that in bed, maybe after a long, leisurely fuck, or whether he'd have another expression for that, maybe something broader, fiercer, dirtier? He would really like to find out, he realized. Huh. Maybe Rodney wasn't so far off the mark with his acid comments and random bouts of jealousy. Well, John had to admit he had been flirting, ever so slightly, not that Mitchell seemed to have noticed. Of course, it wasn't like John was as desperate as Rodney liked to claim. He nearly snorted out loud at that thought. If he was as bad as Rodney frequently claimed he was, he'd be feeling Mitchell up in public. Which he had no intentions of doing. Yes, he'd like to get into Mitchell's pants, but if it never happened, well, he could live with that perfectly fine, as well.

They were only a few yards from the trees when a shadow fell over them, too sharp and sudden to be a cloud, and John looked up, hands going for his guns, an instinctual rush of adrenaline tightening his muscles. 

It wasn't the slender, pointy outline of a dart, though, which he saw hovering black against the bright blue sky, but instead something broad and bulky. A bright beam, like a spotlight, fell on them, blinding him even as he dropped and threw himself to the side. There was a whooshing sound, something dark seemingly falling down around him even as he was moving, and he hit his shoulder painfully against a sharp, hard edge. Then the edge was gone in the disorienting rush of demolecularisation, a quickly-fading, bone-deep chill he had long since become familiar with.


	5. Chapter 5

His guns were up, were pointed, as he found himself crouching on a smooth, dark-golden floor. The bulky, oval head of a weapon was a foot from his face, the size of Ronon's fists. A dull, electrical sound, and it parted, orange lines of energy arcing along the inside.

John followed the long shaft of the weapon up to the broad hands and muscular arms holding it, clad in chain mail and metal plates. A grim face, black tattoo on the forehead, and John had heard enough stories about Jaffa from Rodney to recognize one when he came face to face with him. Which made that a staff lance, and he'd also heard enough stories to know that they made the big holes. Rodney had often wistfully wished they'd taken some of those with them to Pegasus. 

John cast his eyes left and right in a quick flick, assessing the situation. The situation was that he, they, were surrounded, there were at least three staff lances pointed at his head, and he had no idea what things looked like at his back, but he assumed they were similar. For just a split second, while the surprise still held, he considered dropping and starting to shoot, and if he'd been alone, he might have risked it. But he wasn't alone, and moving would expose Mitchell, who was unarmed, and he wasn't fast enough to take all of these Jaffa out at this close a range before they could get a shot off. So he stayed where he was and let the moment pass. 

“Whoa, hey guys,” he heard Mitchell drawl amiably, somewhere above him. “What's this all about, then?”

There was the mechanical sliding sound of what John assumed was a door at his back and the steps of a single pair of boots. 

“Colonel Mitchell. It's a pleasure to see you again.”

“Do I know you?” Mitchell still sounded pleasant, only faintly curious, and John wondered whether in this galaxy, that meant that this was all some sort of big misunderstanding and they could get out of this without anyone having to die. 

“I doubt you've noticed me the last time I saw you. It was many years ago, after all. My name is Silak.”

“It's nice to meet you, Silak. Could you maybe ask these fellas to lower their weapons? My arms are starting to get sorta tired.”

“Of course, Colonel Mitchell. Just as soon as your companion there hands over _his_ weapons.”

John didn't take his eyes off the Jaffa facing him, suppressed the instinct to turn around and look for a visual clue from Mitchell on how to proceed, to find out what was going on behind him, how many there were and who this Silak character was. He was starting to feel his arms, too, but he still had quite a while longer in him before his guns would start to waver.

“Uh, Sheppard? Maybe you should do what the nice young man asks.”

“That really depends,” John answered, matching Mitchell's calm, light tone. “Will that increase our chances of survival, or are they going to kill us anyway? In that case, I'd rather go down fighting.”

“I see,” Silak's voice said quietly. “Well, we only really need Colonel Mitchell...”

John assumed he gave some sort of signal to the Jaffa facing John, but he was already moving, rolling and shooting. One shot landed dead centre on a Jaffa's chest, felling the man, the one with his other hand went wide. A staff blast went by so close to his face that he could feel the super-heated air pass along his skin, and he was vaguely aware that there were more impacts around him. There were legs all around him, and he shot another Jaffa in the knee, eliciting a satisfying bellow of pain as he tried to regain his feet and get his back to a wall. Quarters were too close, though, and pain exploded in his kidneys and along the small of his back, driving him back to his knees, even as he tried to shoulder his way past the injured Jaffa. Far from going down, the bastard brought the butt of his staff lance swinging at John's face, and he dropped back to the floor to avoid impact, rolling and kicking with his legs, hoping to catch someone in the ankle and unbalance another of the Jaffa he could sense behind him. His feet made no contact, but instead someone else's boot planted itself hard in his stomach. He felt his eyes bug out with the impact, all the air knocked out of him for a moment, arms and legs instinctively curling up before the pain even registered. He rallied after only a moment, fighting through the pain, but it was a moment too long, as the butt of a staff lance landed hard on the back of his hand, making his fingers spasm, and a proficient return sweep of the lance sent one of his guns sliding away. With a growl, he did the last thing they would expect, rolled on his back, throwing himself into the legs of the Jaffa standing behind him, and brought his second gun up. Faintly, he was aware of Mitchell yelling his name as he pressed the trigger to shoot one of the Jaffa towering over him in the face. Incredibly, the guy managed to avoid the shot, swirling the lance around until its business end was pointing right at John's chest. John had a fraction of a moment to realize that this was very bad, then there was a bright, bright blast of energy, and for the second time, all air was driven out of him and the world went dark around the edges with pain as he felt his ribs creak with the impact, his gun clattering from suddenly nerveless fingers. 

He might have passed out for just a moment, because the next thing he knew, there was the smell of singed leather, smoke rising from his chest, and he and the Jaffa were blinking at each other with equal surprise to find him still alive. Huh. Apparently the blade grass inlays in his jacket weren't only good for stopping Wraith from feeding. Then the tip of the staff lance moved towards his face, John thought 'Oh, shit', and Silak's voice shouted “Stop!”

The Jaffa obeyed, and John felt a certain gratitude for that as he eyed the weapon pointed at his face. His entire torso was aching from the fight, back and chest and stomach. 

“I've changed my mind,” Silak said somewhere off to John's left, hidden behind the towering shapes of the Jaffa circling him. “I want him alive after all. Get him secured.” His voice was casual again as John found himself roughly hauled to his feet, his hands yanked behind his back and tied with a leather cord in a manner that promised to interfere with his circulation. Black spots swam before his eyes as he tried to get his feet under him, preserve at least some of his dignity as they manhandled him. When he was sure he wasn't going to pass out cold, he lifted his head to take a look around and assess just how big of a mess they were in. 

Mitchell was flanked by two Jaffa, one of whom seemed to be holding his arms behind his back while the other had a small hand weapon pointed at his head. They were inside a small room and John could see what was unmistakeably a cockpit through the open door. Outside the window, the broad streaks of light of hyperspace travel were majestically passing by, and John concluded that it was quite big a mess, all things considered. 

His eyes landed on a young man standing off a little to the side who was probably Silak. His hair was dark, his face sharp and triangular, fox-like, and he didn't have a tattoo or wear chain mail. Instead, his clothes were a patchy assortment of leather and fur which John might never have seen before, but which smacked of native clothing, the likes of which he had seen often enough in Pegasus. Though, most Pegasus residents would take better care of their clothes, as the fur brims were dark with dirt and ragged with disregard, the leather grimy and scuffed. 

John counted six Jaffa, including the one that was stretched out on the floor, lifeless, blank eyes staring up at the ceiling, and the one who was hobbling around on one foot, using the butt of his lance now for balance while he shot John nasty looks. 'Think Ronon on steroids', Rodney had said, and apparently, he hadn't been exaggerating. It made John feel a bit better about pathetically losing this short fight. Just a bit, though.

The injured Jaffa collected John's guns and handed them over to Silak, who tested their weight and grip appreciatively, looking them over. John felt violated. It was as if the little bastard's grimy hands were touching his own skin as he watched fingers with dirty, ragged nails curl around the grips, and it took a lot of self-control to not growl at the man. 

“These are very nice,” Silak observed. “I have never seen the like.” He turned a questioning look on John, and John did his best to look bored, twitching his shoulders a little in a tiny shrug.

“I'm not from around here.”

“And where are you from, then; what did Colonel Mitchell call you, Sheppard?”

John smiled blandly. “Nowhere you'd've heard of.”

Silak's eyebrows went up in question. “Try me.”

John kept on smiling. “Nah.”

Silak frowned briefly, then shrugged, tugging John's guns in his belt. “As you wish.” He nodded at the Jaffa. “Secure them for the rest of the flight.”

He turned to go as the Jaffa started to manoeuvre them towards the far side of the room. 

“Silak,” John called before the man could leave, and Silak turned his head to look at him over one shoulder, hand on the frame of the door.

“If you let us go now, we'll call this a misunderstanding and forget about it, how about it?”

Silak's lips turned up into a mocking grin. “And if I don't?”

“Then you die,” John answered, dropping the fake casualness, staring Silak into the eyes, willing him to see how very, deadly serious he was. “You can hurt me, you can kill me, but make no mistake. I have friends, and they will hunt you down, you and everyone under your command, and they will have their revenge. Consider this your one and only warning, as required by the law of my people.”

Silak blinked for a moment, turning a bit as if to face John again, then he stopped and laughed. 

“Oh, you're interesting, Sheppard!” He gave John a bright, toothy grin. “I'm glad I didn't kill you. Yet. You'll be fun, I'm sure.” He turned away with a little wave and stepped through the door, which hissed shut behind him. 

John let himself be pushed down so he was sitting against the wall, staff lances pointed at him at all times. A Jaffa bent down to snap shackles shut around his wrists, never once crossing the line of fire, and without bothering to undo the leather cord that tied his hands already. Mitchell received a similar treatment, and then the Jaffa dragged their dead comrade out through the door, leaving only one grim-faced guard behind, staff lance cradled diagonally across his chest.

“So,” John said quietly to Mitchell, keeping an eye on the guard. The man could've been a statue for all the reaction he showed, so John guessed speaking was okay. “What just happened?”

“How do you mean? We got kidnapped, obviously.”

Since the guard really didn't seem about to do anything, John turned his head to catch Mitchell's raised eyebrows.

“Yeah, I got _that_ ,” he retorted. “I mean, who are these people? And how did we get here? And what sort of ship is this?”

“Oh, that. Well, they ringed us up.” Mitchell nodded towards a wide ring in the middle of the floor which John had taken to be decorative so far. “This is a Goa'uld cargo ship. They must've been cloaked, waiting for someone to come by.”

“Someone, or you,” John pointed out.

“Yeah,” Mitchell agreed, leaning his head back against the wall. “Or me.”

“So, any idea who they are and what they want?”

“I'm thinking Lucian Alliance,” Mitchell sighed. “Space mafia,” he explained at John's questioning look. “Smugglers, drug dealers, mercenaries... They've started to become a real problem in the last couple years.” He glanced at the Jaffa guard, who didn't give any indication that he was even aware of their existence. “Whatever they want, it's not gonna be pretty.”

“Yeah,” John agreed with a sigh as he tried to shift into a marginally more comfortable position, without much success, trying to ignore the lingering ache in his lungs and stomach, the tension building up in his shoulders and neck, the creeping numbness in his fingers. He leaned his head back against the wall and let his eyes slide shut. It was depressing that he had enough experience with this sort of situation that he knew there was nothing more productive to do at the moment than rest, preserve his energy for when he would need it later. He wasn't going to fall asleep, no way, but half a year in a time dilation field with wanna-be ascendants had taught him more about meditation than he'd ever wanted to know, and very occasionally, it actually came in handy. He just hoped Rodney and Ronon waited long enough with the killing to ask the right questions. He hoped there were the right questions. It wasn't going to get himself rescued any faster if they started a war with Earth, and, while he reserved final judgement, he really didn't think Earth was behind this at the moment.

***

Rodney levered himself up on the central control console, and frowned at the clock on his tablet. He'd been too busy to notice time passing the last few hours, checking over the Cyrinius' life-support systems to make sure nothing had gotten damaged, that all the power conduits were in order. But now he was satisfied that, miraculously, most of the damage they had taken was structural and the core systems of the ship were all performing well within their normal parameters, and now he had the opportunity to notice the time.

“Is Sheppard back?” he asked Kimra, who was working on the next console over, coordinating the repair crews who were methodically making their way through the far-off regions of the ship. It was quite possible that Sheppard had long since checked in, and Rodney merely hadn't noticed. But Kimra looked up and shook her head.

“Not that I know of.”

Rodney frowned and pushed a few buttons on central control, calling up the last few hours of personnel log. Grodin had finally come back aboard, he saw, and some of the darts and jumpers had been taken out for short test flights by a couple of pilots, but there was no trace that Sheppard had come back, and it was already late afternoon by Earth time. 

“Are the heck sensor arrays fixed already?”

Kimra shrugged. “They work.”

Rodney took that to mean that they weren't quite in the condition they should be in, but that they'd been patched up well enough to hold until they had the time to properly fix them. Travellers were amazingly good at that sort of thing.

Rodney hesitated for a moment. It was probably nothing. Who knew how long a meeting with the President could take? And if John found out, he'd make exasperated faces at him and inform him, all biting sarcasm, that they didn't carry beacons so Rodney could sensor-stalk him whenever he felt the need. But Rodney would take the eye-rolling and the ribbing over _not knowing_ , and so he keyed in the commands. 

The sensor sweep came up empty. 

Rodney frowned, not yet willing to acknowledge the feeling of creeping dread winding through his chest, and checked that all the sensor arrays were, in fact, in working order. He bounced a test signal from one array to the next, and yes, they were all sending and receiving just fine, nice, even spikes on the screen. So he tapped the buttons again, sent the signal out to John's beacon. 

Nothing. 

He boosted the signal.

Still nothing. Either John's beacon was switched off, or he wasn't on Earth. 

Kimra had by now come over to lean a hip against the console next to him, frowning at the screen, empty where the search result should be. Rodney tapped his radio. 

“Ronon, I need you on the bridge. Right now.” He didn't wait for an answer, but widened the search parameters, and sent the signal again. 

The screen was still empty when Ronon stalked onto the bridge, and Rodney forced himself to take deep, even breaths.

“What's up?”

“Have you heard from Sheppard?” It was a faint hope, but you never knew what their idiot Commander thought of next to drive Rodney that much closer to an aneurysm.

Ronon frowned. “No. Why?”

“I'm not picking up his beacon.” Rodney looked up, into Ronon's narrowing eyes. “Either it's off, or he's not in this solar system. And why would he switch it off, if he wasn't in trouble?”

Ronon growled, that deep, animalistic rumble he somehow managed to produce, and his eyes met Rodney's. Then he was turning away, bellowing orders into the comm, while Rodney leaned into the comforting warmth of Kimra's slim body next to him, and focused on simply breathing through the irrational, blind panic that always gripped him when John was missing or dying or staring down the barrel of Kolya's gun. One of Kimra's hands was on his shoulder, small fingers digging in hard enough to hurt, and she wrapped her other arm around his stomach, under his tightly crossed arms. He lifted his head once he had a grip, however tenuous, on his hysteria, and met her gaze. Gone was the deceptive mildness, the faint amusement in her dark eyes, and instead there was the fierce, intelligent burn that had first drawn him into her bed. He rested his forehead against hers for a moment, and then he straightened his shoulders, her hands falling away, and joined Ronon for a lightening-speed planning session.

***


	6. Chapter 6

Sam had just left her lab, on the way to the mess hall, when she saw a group of Atlantians come down the corridor. She stopped, surprised. McKay and Ronon Dex were in the lead, faces grim, striding down the corridor with purpose. 

“Hey guys,” she greeted, puzzled, turning to McKay. “What's up?” Because from the downward slope of his broad mouth and the fierce frown, something surely was up. He exchanged a look with the towering warrior beside him, some wordless message passing between them. Sam glanced between them, and just as she noticed the naked guns in their hands, McKay's hand shot out, quick as a snake, far quicker than she would've expected of him, and she found herself spun around, cold metal touching her temple, light as a feather, while her arm was twisted behind her back. 

“What...? Huh...? _McKay_!!” She made to twist her way out of the grip, her mind struggling with the concept that _Rodney McKay_ was holding a gun to her head. 

“Don't,” he said, the pressure of the steel at her temple increasing just a little in warning. His voice was so cold, so calm, so far from his usual bite or histrionics, that she stopped and went still.

“Good,” he said, in that same distant, analytical tone. “Now walk.” 

She did.

They started moving down the corridor again, Sam awkwardly trying not to stumble at the rapid pace. They were moving towards the control room, she noticed, the Atlantians' boots echoing grimly off the walls.

She didn't understand what was going on. This had to be some sort of misunderstanding, right? She knew the concerns that were circulating amongst the top brass, knew that Jack didn't quite trust the expedition and their alien friends, but surely... Surely this wasn't what it looked like, right? Why would they suddenly attack them after they'd just helped defend them from the Wraith? However... Rodney McKay was holding a gun to her head. 

They rounded the corner where the stairs to the control room exited, and the eyes of the two marines guarding it grew wide as they landed on Sam. However, their weapons started to swing, their mouths opened to shout... and they crumbled to the ground, sizzles of red energy running over them, just as Sam's ears registered the dull twin sound of the shots as they left Dex's gun. 

The Atlantians, and Sam, necessarily, didn't even break stride. Sam could hear the suddenly questioning lilt to the voices from the control room, but they were already moving up the stairs, McKay's gun moving smoothly to rest in the middle of her back, right over her spine, to accommodate for her position as she climbed the stairs in front of him. 

They swept into the control room, the Atlantians smoothly fanning out, weapons pointed, before the scientists and guards had time to recover from their surprise. McKay's gun moved back to her head without ever pointing at anything but her. Reluctantly, Sam had to acknowledge that the Atlantians were impressively smooth at this. 

People blinked, and spluttered, voices calling several variations of “Hey!” or “What's going on?” over each other. The Atlantians didn't respond, and after a moment, silence descended over the control room. 

“Put your weapons on the ground and slide them over,” McKay instructed the two marines who were guarding the steps to the conference room and Landry's office. They hesitated. 

“Now!” McKay ordered, and Dex's gun moved to point at one of them. Another fraction of a second went by, then they slowly settled their P-90s on the ground and shoved them to slide towards the Atlantians. Dex's gun followed their every movement, while the weapons of the other young men they had with them covered the rest of the room. Hands reached for the weapons from behind McKay's and Dex's legs, smoothly dragging them away without compromising anyone's line of fire. Dex waved everyone to stand together against the wall next to the stairs, keeping what they were doing mostly out of sight off the gate room. At a nod from him, three young men peeled off and went up the stairs with quiet, cat-like grace, bulky black guns in their hands.

Seconds later, strangely electrical shots sounded from above, and Sam could hear General Landry demand to know what was going on. For a while, all there was to hear were steps, first in the corridor, then on the stairs, until the General appeared on the stairs, his hands in the air, a gun pointed at the back of his head. His eyes widened when he took in the scene in the control room.

“Dr. McKay? What's the meaning of this?” he demanded, and Sam winced at the barely hidden anger in the words.

“Where's Sheppard?” McKay asked, voice still unusually quiet, but now there was a thread of something, something dark and barely contained. 

Landry blinked. “What? Sheppard? I don't know. Now, doctor, put the gun down and let the Colonel go. You can't really think you can get away with this, can you?”

“We warned you.” The unnatural calm was finally leaving McKay's voice but the thrumming rage that replaced it was not reassuring. “We warned you what would happen if you pulled something like this! Now, _where is Sheppard_?”

“Dr. McKay, I don't know where Commander Sheppard is. Isn't he with you?”

“He went to _your_ meeting. Alone. He's not come back. Now, we've been nothing but friendly and cooperative, we've saved your god damn planet, but if you don't give us our Commander back, we'll start killing people until you do.”

Sam felt her breath hitch and a shiver travel down her spine, because... because she suddenly realized that McKay meant every word. So far, she hadn't actually been scared. Surprised, yes, worried, yes, shocked, yes, but not scared. On some level, she had been sure that this was a misunderstanding, that once they talked about it, it would all clear up. So far, she had not believed that Rodney McKay would actually shoot her when push came to shove.

Now the fear settled like snakes in her gut, now she knew, on a deep, instinctual level, that he would pull the trigger, that he would watch her blood and brains spray from her head and not flinch. Now she knew that Jack was right, and they had changed, they were no longer _their_ people. Somewhere along the line during the last ten years, the people they had known had died and been replaced by strangers. 

And they thought that Sheppard was missing, that they had something to do with it, and Sam was afraid that no amount of words would convince them otherwise until it was far, far too late. 

Then Dex touched his ear, rumbled a few words in Ancient, and McKay drew her to the side, the Atlantians moving away from the stairs out into the corridor. Shortly thereafter, Jack came up, hands behind his head, escorted by another young man in the black Atlantian uniform.

“Okay, folks, now what's this all about?” he drawled pleasantly, then his eyes landed on her. “Hey, Carter, you okay?” It was probably silly, but Jack's presence did make her feel a lot better.

“Fine, Sir.”

Jack nodded, then looked around, finally settling on Dex and McKay as the obvious leaders.

“So. What's up?”

“We want Sheppard back. And don't even pretend you don't know what we're talking about.”

“I _don't_ know what you're talking about, Doc. Last I've seen Sheppard, he was leaving the party with Mitchell.”

There was a tiny moment of silence, as if the entire room held its breath, then McKay snapped: “When?”

“When what? When did he leave? Must've been, oh, around fifteen hundred hours or something. Why?”

“Because apparently Commander Sheppard never made it back to his ship, or so they claim,” Landry growled. 

“Really?” Jack asked in that tone of his, that tone that could've been mocking, disbelieving, or honestly curious, it was impossible to tell.

“Yes, really,” McKay snarled, his gun pressing slightly closer to Sam's head in his agitation. “He never checked back in.”

Something occurred to Sam just then. “Has anyone seen Mitchell?” Because she hadn't, not since he came by to ask whether she wanted to leave with him, Sheppard hovering in the background, she now remembered. 

She exchanged a look with Jack, who exchanged a look with Landry, who then turned to look at McKay. 

“If I may...?” He gestured to the phone on the wall. McKay in turn exchanged a look with Dex, then nodded.

“Fine. Go ahead.”

“Front desk, please,” General Landry said into the phone. “This is General Landry. Has Colonel Mitchell checked back in this afternoon? … Is that so? Yes, I see. Thank you, Sergeant.” He hung up again.

“It seems Colonel Mitchell hasn't checked back in, either. Walter, get me General Caldwell.” 

Walter shot a look at the Atlantians, but when no one made any threatening moves, he scurried over to his console to call up to the Daedalus. 

“Daedalus, this is General Landry. Please come in.”

General Caldwell's face appeared on the monitor. “This is Daedalus.”

“Steven, have either Colonel Mitchell or Commander Sheppard contacted you to beam back to the SGC?”

“Negative,” Caldwell replied. “Why?”

Landry frowned thunderously. “Are you sure? They should've contacted you at approximately fifteen hundred hours.”

“I'm sure, Hank. The first people we've beamed back were you and Colonel Carter, at...” He consulted something off to the side, “... sixteen hundred hours, fifteen minutes. What's going on?”

Landry shot a quick look at the Atlantians, then straightened his back. 

“It seems we've misplaced them. Can you scan for Colonel Mitchell's subcutaneous transmitter?”

“Of course, Hank.” Caldwell leaned back to bark the order to someone outside of the screen, and then they watched his face fall into a frown. “We're not getting a signal from the transmitter.”

Sam exchanged a look with Jack, almost forgetting that McKay still had a gun to her head as worry for Mitchell shoved worry for herself aside. 

“How strong is your signal?” McKay asked, voice almost normal again. 

“Dr. McKay? Is that you? Well, if he was on Earth, we'd've picked it up unless he was in some sort of shielded facility or the transmitter was broken.”

“So Mitchell's missing as well,” Jack concluded. “And they must have gone missing somewhere between leaving the White House and reaching the beaming point.”

“Should we keep scanning?” Caldwell asked and Landry nodded. 

“Yes, please do.”

“All right. Daedalus out.”

Jack turned to face the Atlantians fully again.

“So, unless you think we've kidnapped our own man along with your Commander, could we please stop with the guns?”

“Maybe that's what you want us to think,” McKay retorted.

Jack raised an eyebrow. “Seriously, if we'd thought you'd come storming in here taking hostages, we'd've put up more guards. So, since we didn't think you'd come storming in here taking hostages, why would we set up some elaborate scheme to make you think Mitchell's missing?”

McKay acknowledged that with a grunt. “I guess...”

He held a short, quick conversation with Dex in Ancient, and then the gun dropped from Sam's head, his fingers released her arm.

“Fine,” he allowed. “We believe you. For the moment. But if it turns out you're screwing with us we'll be very, very pissed.”

With a sigh of relief, Sam went over to stand next to Jack. She didn't want to be anywhere near McKay at the moment.

The Atlantians were holstering weapons all around with no sign that they regretted their actions or felt the least need to apologize.

“We'll have to talk about the guards your people shot upstairs,” Landry said with a frown and a nod to the stairs, but McKay just waved a negligent hand.

“They're just stunned, they'll be good as new in an hour or so. Nothing a few painkillers for the headache can't fix.” He scowled at them as they all looked at him in surprise. “No, we haven't killed anyone so far, okay? So you _better_ not be screwing with us, or the boys won't be packing stunners next time.”

Sam gave another sigh of relief. At least no one was dead so far. 

“Ah,” Jack said, rubbing his hands together. “Then let's stop pointing guns at each other and get on finding our people, shall we? Wait, where's Daniel?” He looked around suspiciously.

“He was in his lab, reviewing his notes of the last couple of weeks when I asked him if he wanted to come to dinner with me, Sir,” Sam answered.

Jack gave an audible sigh of relief. “Good, good. Maybe someone should go get him, just to make sure, though. You know how he is, always first in line when there's kidnapping in the air.”

“You think they were kidnapped, Sir?” Sam asked. 

Jack shrugged. “It sounds like the most likely scenario. I don't know about Sheppard, but Mitchell's not the kind to disregard standard protocol on a whim. If he could've called in, he would have.”

“So would Sheppard,” McKay asserted. “He's a reckless idiot at the best of times, but this sort of shit has happened far too often for him to go off without telling anyone, no matter the reason.”

Now that he was no longer holding a gun to her head, Sam could see how forced his calm really was. 

“You guys get kidnapped a lot in Pegasus?” Jack drawled, eyebrows up. 

McKay snorted sourly. “If it's not the Wraith or the Genii, it's homicidal drug-addicts or slave traders. But who'd have reason to kidnap Sheppard here? No one knows who he is, and we're not the only source of C4 and antibiotics in the whole damn galaxy.”

“Maybe the target was Colonel Mitchell, and Commander Sheppard just happened to be there,” General Landry suggested. “Walter, lock out the Colonel's IDC codes and operate under the assumption that he's been compromised.”

Sam almost protested, but she knew as well as any of them, as well as Mitchell did, that it was the reasonable thing to do. 

“Now, maybe we should move this to somewhere where we can sit down?” the General suggested. 

McKay exchanged another short look with Dex, then Dex gave several quick orders in Ancient, and Sam thought that having Daniel there might be a good idea not just to keep an eye on him. About half of the young men who had accompanied McKay and Dex smartly turned around and headed back down the stairs while Jack had someone call the infirmary to collect the stunned guards and make sure they were really all okay. McKay informed him that there were several more of them to be found along the route the Atlantians had taken into the base. Apparently, they had entered the hangar bay with two cloaked jumpers and proceeded on the shortest possible way towards the control room, stunning any opposition along their way. Now, McKay informed them, one jumper would return to the Cyrinius with its complement of guards. That left McKay, Dex and four armed, blank-faced young men as the Atlantian complement on the base. 

They moved to the conference room, and Jack sent an airman to get Daniel, who promptly frowned when he entered the room and laid eyes on Jack.

“Seriously?” Daniel asked. “I spend a few days focusing on my research, and you not only manage to antagonize them enough that they'd rather declare their independence than work with us, you also lose their Commander?!”

“Hey, why do you assume any of this is my fault?” Jack protested.

Daniel frowned. “You're advisor to the President. It's your job to make sure this sort of thing doesn't happen.”

Jack blinked, then rolled his eyes. “I advised! And I promise, I had nothing whatsoever to do with the fact that Mitchell and Sheppard are missing.”

Daniel looked scandalized. “I'd hope so, Jack!”

“Dr Jackson, please take a seat,” General Landry broke in before the argument could go on, and Daniel dropped himself down next to Sam. 

“So what exactly happened?” he asked, pushing his glasses up his nose. 

“As far as we can tell, Colonel Mitchell and Commander Sheppard left the White House at approximately fifteen hundred hours and have not been seen or heard from since, so we're assuming they were abducted between the White House itself and the beaming point.”

McKay frowned. “The beaming point was on the grounds of the White House, though, right?”

General Landry nodded. “Yes?”

“So, there's footage, right? I mean, it's the White House, the place must be crammed with security cameras, right? Can we get a look at that?” 

“Ah, good idea, Doc. If I may borrow your red phone, General?” Jack asked Landry, and, without waiting for the answering nod, strode off to call the President. Five minutes later, he was back, informing them that they'd have a copy of this afternoon's security footage within the next half hour.

***

John woke from his half-sleeping trance when a shiver ran through the ship that told him they'd just exited hyperspace. He estimated it was another half hour before the floor shook and the engines died, and John assumed they'd landed.

Silak and his Jaffa entered the hold and dragged John and Mitchell to their feet. John was waiting for an opportunity, an opening to make a break for it, maybe grab a weapon and take Silak hostage, but the Jaffa were scarily proficient, never allowing him a chance, never crossing the line of fire of their colleagues. 

They were marched out of the ship into bright mid-morning sunshine. There was a large plain full of grass swaying in the wind, silvery ripples running towards distant mountains, a massive moon, or maybe a nearby planet, hovering in the sky behind them. It was beautiful, but John was more concerned with the Stargate towering over them just a few yards away, and the larger group of Jaffa and, presumably, Lucian Alliance members waiting for them. 

Silak went over to exchange a few quiet words with the leader of the second group, then they all converged around John and Mitchell.

The leader of the other group looked them over, then slapped Silak on the back and laughed loudly, showing them a mouthful of stained, rotting teeth. Silak's answering smile seemed somewhat forced and he gestured to another man, who was fiddling with some piece of tech.

“Scan them. The Tau'ri always carry transmitters.”

John quickly thought his beacon off, while Mitchell's face fell. The man swept the scanner along Mitchell, and it started beeping when it ran over his torso. A few swipes back and forth, the frequency of beeps slowing and speeding up, and the man had zeroed in on Mitchell's upper left arm, where finally, the scanner emitted one single, high-pitched sound. The man looked at Silak, who nodded, and another Jaffa stepped up. He pulled a large knife from his belt, the blade glinting in the sun. 

“Whoa!” Mitchell tried to take a step back, but one of his Jaffa guards twisted his right arm behind his back and wrapped a beefy arm around his throat, while the other guard grabbed Mitchell's left arm and held it immobile. John tensed and must've made a move, because there was the increasingly familiar dull sound of a staff lance activating, and he took his eyes off of Mitchell long enough to ascertain that it was, indeed, aimed at his face by one of the Jaffa facing him in a lose half-circle. He forced himself to relax again, to stay quiet. They had made it clear that they wanted Mitchell alive, after all, while he was the expendable one. 

The Jaffa with the knife stepped up, felt along Mitchell's arm with clinical precision, and then drew the blade across the skin in one smooth stroke. Mitchell yelled and cursed, trying to struggle and kick futilely, while the Jaffa reached into the cut and dug around until he retrieved a small, rectangular object, the size of a child's fingernail with blood-smeared fingers. He handed it to Silak, who studied it for a moment, and then carelessly dropped it into the grass, smirking at Mitchell. The Jaffa guard had removed his head-lock, and Mitchell was red-faced and panting.

“Fuck,” he swore. “Ow! Fuck!” A thin rivulet of blood was trickling down his arm.

Silak ignored him and sent the man with the scanner over to John. John tried his best to keep his face blank as the scanner was waved over his body, once, then again. It didn't beep. 

Silak's eyebrows rose. 

“It seems you have told the truth. You are not of the Tau'ri.”

“No,” John agreed. “I'm not.”

They were marched to the gate, too close to see the DHD, but John memorized the chevrons lighting up along the gate as best he could. He knew the Pegasus symbols so well it was like reading a favourite book, and he didn't know the symbols here, but he was fairly certain that he could recognize at least four or five of them. 

The gate engaged, and they were prodded through. It was night on the other side, three moons a cluster low over a ridge John could vaguely discern as a blacker shadow against the night sky, then they were loaded into another ship. The flight was short, barely ten minutes long, and they exited into a large camp, fires burning between large tents. There was one stone building, which was, of course, the prison. The walls were solid, at least a foot of stone, large boulders fitted together with mortar, shackles bolted to the wall with screws the size of John's thumbs. He didn't like what it said about these people that they didn't seem much concerned with personal hygiene but kept their prison facilities in top condition.

The Jaffa led Mitchell into one cell and John into the next, cold metal closing again over his bound wrists where the leather cords were beginning to chafe his skin raw. Once he was sitting against the wall, hands behind his back, the Jaffa left, slamming a heavy wooden door shut. He could hear the sound of a bolt engage. There was no window in the walls, and with the door closed, it was pitch dark in the room.

Well, he considered, he wasn't going to get out of this one without some heavy machinery. It wasn't a sophisticated prison, but in his experience, the simpler the build, the harder it was to escape. There was no lock to pick, no forcefield to hack or disrupt. Only metal and stone, far more unforgiving. 

“Mitchell?” he called experimentally.

“Yeah?” came the muffled response from his right. Okay. At least he wouldn't go insane from the isolation.

“You got a room with a window?”

There was a brief pause, then: “No.”

“Well. Accommodations suck, then.”

He thought he heard Mitchell chuckle faintly at that. “Yeah.”

“You okay?” John called after a brief moment of hesitation.

“Yeah. Yeah, I am. You?”

“I'm okay.”

They both fell quiet then. The cold of the floor was starting to seep through the seat of John's pants. Then he remembered that Mitchell was in his dress uniform, and he had to suppress a wince. If he was uncomfortably cool, Mitchell had to be far more so. 

Reasonably certain that he wouldn't be scanned again, John thought his beacon to response setting and hoped Rodney and the guys would come and rescue him soon.

***


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Please heed the "torture" tag- it applies to this chapter.

When the security footage finally arrived, it took them only moments to pick up Cam and Sheppard as they moved through the halls of the White House, out into the park. From there they headed in a straight line towards the beaming point. Just before they reached the little stand of trees, a dark, humped shadow appeared above them. Sam saw the pale blur of their faces tilt up. A bright conical beam of light lit them up, and Sheppard seemed to try and dive out of the way even as the rings fell around them. Then they were both gone and the ship moved off, cloaking again just a moment later.

For a moment, they all sat there and stared at the empty scene recorded by the camera.

“Who's using Goa'uld cargo ships these days?” McKay asked into the silence.

Jack snorted. “Everyone who can get their hands on them.”

“They've got hyperdrive capabilities,” McKay pointed out, unnecessarily, since almost everyone here was aware of that. “They could be anywhere by now!”

Sam was painfully aware of that, too, and so, she was sure, was everyone else.

“So... how do we find them?” Daniel asked after a long moment of silence while they all asked themselves the very same thing.

“We could contact our allies,” Jack suggested. “The Jaffa, the Tok'ra... Maybe someone's heard something.”

“If this wasn't random, maybe there's more cloaked ships around,” Sam suggested. “I can head up to the Daedalus, adjust her scanners to see whether we can pick anything up.”

“We should ask Vala,” Daniel said, and everyone looked at him. He raised his eyebrows at them. “Hey, if there's something to know about this, she will know. Or know someone who knows, for the right price.”

General Landry frowned, then nodded. “Good ideas, people. Let's do all of that. Dr. McKay, I'm sorry your Commander was taken on our watch. We'll do our best to get him back to you, of course.”

McKay scowled, then nodded sharply. “Fine, fine, whatever. I'll be going back to the Cyrinius.” He hesitated, then continued after a brief moment: “Sheppard's got a locator beacon on him. Maybe if I can boost the ship's long-range sensors enough, they might pick up something.”

Sam frowned. “How strong is the signal from that beacon? You think you can pick it up through a relevant amount of space?” Not to mention that the beacon might've been taken from him if it could be. If McKay hadn't considered that possibility, he was clearly not in any frame of mind where he wanted it pointed out to him.

“Not ordinarily, no,” McKay retorted, looking pinched. “But if I can boost the sensors with the ZPM... Look, I know it's a long shot, okay?” he burst out. “But it's all I have, right now!” He stood abruptly and turned to go. 

“Will you inform us if you find anything?” General Landry asked before he could leave the room, Dex moving to follow and the guards peeling themselves from their positions along the wall behind their chairs. McKay stopped for a moment, then nodded, once. 

“Yeah, yeah we'll radio you if we find anything.” 

And then he marched out of the room, almost as if he were fleeing, his fellow Atlantians falling in behind him like a pack of well-trained wolves.

***

It seemed much longer in the dark, but John was reasonably sure that it had been less than an hour when the door to his cell opened, wood scraping along the stones of the floor. He had to turn his head and squint in the sudden light of torches lighting the corridor outside. The same Jaffa guard who had led him into the cell strode in to unlock his manacles and drag him to his feet, pushing him out of the cell. He was a large man, build like a pro-wrestler, with a deep tan and short-cropped, dark hair. The symbol on his forehead was an assortment of curved, pointy lines, forming something like horns, in raised gold. John didn't fancy his chances at taking him in a fight hand to hand. The man was almost twice as broad as he was. Possibly even Ronon would have hesitated to take him on. On second thought, no, Ronon would consider it a point of honour to take him on and see who came out on top. John really wished Ronon was with him right now. He liked Mitchell, but he'd feel much better about his chances of escaping if it was Ronon at his back.

He was led over to Mitchell's cell and pushed inside. Mitchell was chained to the wall, hands behind his back, sitting on the floor, just as John had been, and the look he gave John was just a little apprehensive around the edges, just enough to make a very bad feeling curl up in John's gut and make itself at home. Another man was standing in the cell with them, not a Jaffa but one of the folks with the patchy leather clothing and lax attitude towards personal hygiene. He was tall and thin, with dirty blond hair (whether that was actually dirt or just his hair colour, John couldn't be sure) and a goatee. He smiled at John. It wasn't a very pleasant smile.

“So, you are Sheppard?” He looked John up and down, eyes lingering appreciatively. “I am Neam.” His way of speaking made it clear that English was not his first language. “I have been charged with obtaining certain information from Colonel Mitchell. Unfortunately, the Colonel has been reluctant to share his knowledge. Unfortunately for you, that is.”

John shared a look with Mitchell, who managed to look determined and sorry at the same time. Oh yeah, things made a lot of sense now– the sort of sense John didn't like at all. 

“Now, Sheppard,” Neam smiled his oily smile again, “maybe you would like to give some sort of advice to Colonel Mitchell?” 

Clearly, the man hoped John would beg Mitchell to talk to spare himself the incipient torture. 

“Don't tell them a word,” he told Mitchell. Neam's face twisted, he looked at the Jaffa over John's shoulder, and a sharp whack, probably with the butt of that stupid staff lance, hit him across the back of the legs, dropping him hard on his knees on the stone floor. Neam moved in close, but made sure Mitchell had a good view as he backhanded John hard across the face. John felt his bottom lip split against his teeth, the tang of blood invading his mouth. 

Oh yeah. This wasn't going to be fun.

***

Cam ground his teeth in anger and frustration as he had to watch Neam methodically beat the crap out of Sheppard. He wanted to shout, to threaten, to beg, to ask them to take it out on him instead, because he'd rather be the one being tortured than watch helplessly. But that was the entire point, wasn't it? Silak hadn't killed Sheppard because Mitchell had shown he gave a shit about what happened to the other man. And this was certainly more effective than if they'd torture Cam directly, sort of. It was almost unbearable to watch as Sheppard was subjected to the brutality of these people because of something he had nothing to do with, something he had no knowledge about, just because he happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. But there was also no way in hell Cam could tell them what they wanted to know. The Lucian Alliance was already far too powerful for comfort, and if Cam betrayed the locations of Earth's shipyards, and they were destroyed... No, the consequences were far too dire, Cam's life weighed far too little in comparison... and so did Sheppard's. The biggest advantage Earth had over the rest of the galaxy these days were her shipyards. With the Goa'uld defeated, all but wiped from existence, the Asgard barely holding off extinction, no one was building spaceships in noticeable numbers any more, no one but Earth. Everyone needed ships, and every old, salvaged Goa'uld ship that was destroyed wasn't replaced any more. And after ten years, that fact was becoming more apparent by the day.

No, Cam wouldn't give up that information. If Earth was crippled, reduced to the point where their only way out of their own solar system, off their own planet, was the Stargate again, the Lucian Alliance would have the room to become the dominant power in the galaxy. He couldn't allow that to happen. Even if it cost his life. And Sheppard's.

Sheppard, who clearly understood what was at stake, and who took the beating passively, eyes shuttered. Cam winced in sympathy as Sheppard turned his head a little to spit out a mouthful of bloody saliva, his teeth stained red, but Sheppard seemed all business. 

“Well?” Neam demanded, rubbing the knuckles of his right fist with the palm of his left. “Have you still not changed your mind? Colonel Mitchell? Sheppard?”

Cam scowled at the man and bit out a short “No.” Sheppard merely raised an eyebrow. 

He was rewarded with a kick in the kidneys that left him gasping for breath as Neam stepped up his assault. 

Twenty minutes later, Neam was breathing hard and Sheppard was retching, throwing up his lunch after two vicious punches in the stomach, and Cam would've given a body part to do something, _anything_ , to stop this... if it didn't entail giving them the information they wanted.  
Neam scowled, disgusted. 

“Take him back to his cell,” he ordered the Jaffa, who grabbed the back of Sheppard's uniform to haul him to his feet. “And get him out of that jacket!” Neam rubbed his knuckles with a grimace. Apparently, whatever had stopped that staff blast wasn't pleasant to hit, despite the fact that Neam had long since wrapped a bandage around his hand whose darkly mottled surface attested that this wasn't the first time it had been used for that purpose.

He gave Cam a dark look as well, and then left the cell without a word, slamming the door behind him, plunging Cam into darkness.

***

Jack stood, looking out on the gate from the conference room. Sam and Daniel were off to do what they could to find Mitchell while Landry was pacing the room behind him.

“Dammit, Jack!” he finally thundered, from the sound of it slamming his palms down hard on the table. Jack turned around. “They walked right in! They walked right in and held a _gun_ to Colonel Carter's head!”

“Yeah,” Jack said, calmly. “I know.” His eyes met Landry's.

“This can't happen again, Jack. I won't have people just walking into my base, threatening my people again, and I don't care what the President says or how much the IOA wants to pick McKay's brain about Ancient technology! These people are dangerous, and I won't have them on my base again while they're carrying weapons. In fact, I'll be just as happy to not have them on my base again, period.”

Jack nodded slowly. He didn't like people who held guns to other people's heads, on general principle. He like them less if they were holding the gun to the head of one of his. And he didn't care if they used to live on Earth, he didn't care if they used to be their people, too. He didn't care if Sheppard had gone missing under suspicious circumstances, he didn't care if it was a decade's worth of bad experiences that made them act this way. He hadn't approved of the cavalier attitude with which they had declared themselves independent, even if the IOA had been dicks. He hadn't approved, but he understood. Which didn't mean he liked it, because... because these people acted as if they didn't owe Earth anything any more, as if they hadn't spent most of their lives here, as if Earth hadn't nurtured them. Intellectually, he knew that ten years in a foreign place was a long time, but... Jack had his honour, he had his principles, he had his duty, and he just couldn't approve, even if he had enjoyed watching the faces of the President and the stuffy IOA officials, the overbearing generals, fall as he brought them the news. 

But this... this went beyond a private ideological disagreement. There had been guns involved, after all. Guns against Carter's head. 

“We won't let it happen again,” he promised Landry.

***

Rodney startled badly when a small hand settled on his, interrupting his attempts to fiddle a recalcitrant bunch of ancient wires into a narrow slot between two crystals. Kimra calmly reached over, slender fingers neatly inserting the fibres one at a time. He met her gaze for a moment, then had to look away, elected to watch her proficient motions rather than face the understanding and compassion he saw in her eyes.

He picked up his tablet, focused on calibrating the sensors to get the most out of the power boost from the ZPM, and didn't think about how fucking big this galaxy was, how fucking small their chances were that John was in reach of the sensors... definitely didn't think about how entirely possible it was that John had already been dead for hours.

***

Cam closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the wall, exhausted. It didn't help any. He could still hear Sheppard screaming.

They hadn't brought him in here this time. Instead, they left it up to him to imagine what they were doing to him. Instead, they just let him hear the screams through the stone wall that separated their cells. 

Neam was leaning against the wall next to the door, arms folded, staring at him, waiting. Waiting for Cam to give in. He'd been doing that, just standing there with that smug look on his face, for... Cam didn't know for how long. Time was measured by Sheppard's screams, and every moment of that was too long. His voice had gone hoarse a while ago. 

The torch light was painting flickering shadows on the insides of his eyelids. He tried to focus on them, to distance himself from what was happening. It was useless, as another scream, drawn-out, cracking in the middle, echoed off the walls.

***

It finally stopped. Cam opened his eyes as Neam left his cell. There was a short conversation in the hall, then they dragged Sheppard in. He was chalk-white, sickly sweat glistening on his face and matting his hair, eyes glazed. They dropped him like a rag doll next to Cam, the snap of the shackles around his wrists, still bound behind his back, almost a mockery.

Neam propped a burning torch into a brace next to the door with a smirk and closed the door behind him. Cam caught just a glance of Silak's profile, sharp and expressionless, out in the corridor before it rumbled shut. 

He understood what they were doing: Since torturing Sheppard in front of him hadn't worked, they were trying to see whether it would be more effective if he didn't know exactly what they were doing to him, but left him with the aftermath, with all the light he needed to see the black shadows under Sheppard's eyes, the swollen lip and blood-crusted chin, the livid bruise darkening his temple and cheekbone. 

His uniform jacket was gone, leaving him in his white shirt, stained with blood that must have dripped from his lip and dirt from the cell. One of only two shirts the man owned, Cam remembered. That made it somehow worse. 

At least there were no obvious signs of injury from the last... God, it must've been at least an hour, if not two, of torture. 

“Sheppard?” Cam asked hesitantly.

It took a long moment, then Sheppard swung his head around, frowning as he tried to focus on Cam.

“Yeah?” he croaked, then coughed, eyes squeezing shut in pain. 

“Sorry, sorry,” Cam apologized, wincing in sympathy. “I just... what did they do to you?” 

He wanted to slap himself at how the question came out, how needy, how 'tell me it wasn't _that_ bad', because anything that made a man like Sheppard scream like that was too bad for platitudes.

Sheppard, however, looked at him again when the coughing subsided, eyes a bit clearer than before. 

“Stick... thing,” he half-whispered, obviously trying to go easy on his abused vocal cords. “Prongs at the end.” He grinned humourlessly. “Hurts like hell.”

“Oh, yeah, those.” Cam grimaced. “I know those.”

They were silent for a moment, Sheppard shifting to lean more upright against the wall, probably trying to take some strain off his wrists and shoulders. God knew Cam was feeling it, sitting in the same, uncomfortable position for hours. His back and shoulders were killing him, his ass numb from the cold floor, and he wasn't the one who'd been tortured for the better part of the last few hours. 

Then Sheppard turned his head again, caught Cam's eyes in an intense gaze. For the first time, Cam noticed that Sheppard's eyes were green.

“Don't talk,” Sheppard said, an order if Cam had ever heard one. 

“I won't,” he assured the man, hoping to hell that he wasn't lying. Sheppard held his gaze as if he knew exactly what Cam was thinking.

“Good,” he said, hoarse and fierce. “No matter what. Don't give them anything.”

“Do my best,” Cam answered, and suppressed the urge to tack on a “Sir” at the end. Sheppard gave him a nod that was more a long blink, and then leaned his head against the wall, eyes sliding shut. After a moment, Cam followed suit.

***

Their relative peace didn't last long. The door banged open, and Neam appeared in their cell again. Cam was developing a serious case of hatred towards the guy.

They hauled Sheppard up, the Jaffa with the symbol of a prime of Ba'al on his forehead who seemed to be their main guard and another man from the Lucian Alliance, and Neam merely raised a questioning eyebrow at Cam. Silak was waiting out in the corridor, one hand running the length of the Goa'uld torture rod lazily, absently.

Cam shook his head. 

Sheppard didn't look back as they dragged him out of the room.

***

John ruthlessly squashed the despair that wanted to raise when the cell door opened again. He wasn't sure which session this would be, the fourth, the fifth? He was losing track, everything blending into one long, drawn out period of black stone and yellow torch light and pain, lots and lots of pain. It had been years since he'd last gotten tortured this extensively. He'd thought he'd remembered what it was like, but he didn't, really. The reality was much worse than the memory.

He'd somehow managed to forget how time seemed to cease existing, how existence narrowed down into pain and the expectation of pain, how hope of an end crumbled and died, bit by bit, second by second. 

Hands grabbed him roughly, yanking on his shirt, leaving bruises, and it took all his self-control to not kick and snarl like a cornered animal. He hated the helplessness most, this feeling of utter vulnerability, at the mercy of people who had none. He hated that they touched him, that they could invade his space and he couldn't stop them. 

They didn't take him into the other cell this time, just dumped him in the middle of the floor, right where he'd been when this all started, an eon ago, back when he'd been whole and healthy. Well, apart from the aches and bruises after his little encounter with the Jaffa.

He slid to his knees, not bothering with standing even though he hated the implicit submissiveness of the position. Carefully, he tested the strength of the cord that tied his hands. It was becoming looser, he had noticed, stretching as he tugged and twisted against it when the spasms from their torture device racked his body, the leather slick with sweat and, he suspected, blood. It was biting painfully into the skin of his wrists, a constant irritant that, far from being drowned out by the rest of the pain only served to keep him agitated and restless even when he wasn't being actively tortured. But there was more room between his wrists, and he'd been trying to twist the cord against the edges of the shackles during his last couple of breaks. It was working. There was definite give, even though it hurt like a motherfucker to strain against the leather.

Neam's little helper brandished the torture stick, and John did his best to keep his face utterly blank even as he couldn't stop his muscles from tensing up in futile denial of the pain that was about to come. 

He'd thought he'd known what pain was after being fed on by a Wraith. And it was true, at least, that he wasn't literally losing years of his life for every second that thing touched him. On the other hand that also meant there wasn't an end in sight. There was only so long a Wraith could feed before you simply died. There was only so long the pain could last. This... This could last for a lot longer.

Silak wasn't there this time, and John didn't know whether to be glad for that or not. The last few times, he and Neam had traded places, Neam the one with John in the cell, Silak presumably with Mitchell. John couldn't decide which of them was worse. Neam was a first-rate sadist, eyes shining with greed and lust at John's pain, his humiliation, face eager, his tongue darting out to wet his lips. John knew that Silak's presence kept him in check. Neam had the potential to get... carried away. Silak, however... Silak was methodical, unencumbered by emotion, Silak had a ruthless efficiency John had so far only seen demonstrated by one Acastus Kolya. 

The prongs at the tips touched him, and the world exploded in pain, erasing all thought from his mind. And then it stopped and came again. And again. And again.

John was vaguely aware that he was screaming, soundlessly, his voice finally gone, that he was lying on the floor, that his legs were kicking in a futile reaction, but most of his existence was consumed with the sheer, mind-boggling agony he was in.

***

He came to again to a boot prodding him in the side. Neam smirked down at him when he pried his eyes open, and John really, _really_ wanted to shoot him in the face. It must've shown, because Neam laughed and crouched down to pat his head condescendingly.

“Silak was right when he said you would be something special, Sheppard,” he told John gleefully, then looked over his shoulder at Mitchell, his hand still resting on John's hair. The feral instinct to turn and snap, sink his teeth deep into that hand, give back some of the pain, lodged in John's aching throat, but he forced himself to stillness, to passivity. The cord around his wrists was even looser now, and they hadn't noticed. 

“You will still not change your mind, Colonel Mitchell? He is very tough, your friend, but they all break, eventually. And it would be a shame to destroy such a beautiful creature, don't you agree?”

Mitchell stayed silent, and Neam looked back down at John with a smug, avid look John had seen before. Under normal circumstances, he answered it with a pointed gun and a “Don't even think about it.” Unfortunately, his guns were tucked away into Neam's and his little helper's belts. 

“Ah, well, that is too bad,” Neam said, a mockery of regret in his voice, and took the torture rod out of the other guy's hands. He ran it up and down just above John's spine, causing tiny little sparks of pain to dance along its path, and then shoved it into the back of John's neck.

***


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please continue to heed the warnings- contains torture, gore and violence.

Neam was talking to Mitchell again when he came to the next time, goading him with promises of food and water for both of them. Mitchell declined, and Neam sighed tragically. 

“It seems we will have to become more creative in our ways.” He crouched down in front of John. “Apparently, Colonel Mitchell is quite unaffected by seeing you in pain, Sheppard. That is hardly the sign of a good friend, now is it?” Even if John could have answered, he wouldn't have. “Maybe something more... physical will be more effective on him?”

John didn't like the sound of that, and sometimes, it really didn't pay to be right. 

Neam had his little helper drag John into a vaguely upright position and then drew a knife from his belt, the long, immaculate blade glowing in the torch light. 

The victim of his first cut was John's shirt, now ruined utterly beyond repair. The long cut, from the collar down, exposed John's chest and he saw Neam's eyebrows climb as he studied the two layers of feeding scars, the dark spots of old burns and bullet wounds, the thin, white lines of previous cuts. 

“Peculiar,” he said, poking one of the feeding scars with the tip of his knife, not actually deep enough to cut the skin. He held his hand over John's chest without touching the skin, fingers spread to mimic the pattern of the marks Todd's claws had left behind, and raised his eyebrows again when his fingertips fell far short of the scars. John answered his questioning look with a blank face. 

Neam shrugged, grinned, and placed the tip of his knife against the unmarked skin of John's left pectoral muscle instead. 

“You know you have merely to ask me to stop,” he informed Mitchell as he started cutting. 

At first, it wasn't so bad. It stung like hell, sure, but it had nothing on that torture rod they had been using for the past several hours. Then Neam started peeling skin away, slowly, clinically. 

John twisted away, purely out of instinct, his stomach turning as warm blood burned a sticky trail down his chilled skin. 

Something hard and cold settled against his skull, and a brutal grip twisted one of his arms up behind his back, the other necessarily following because of his tied hands. John had sort of forgotten about the second guy. And that was his own gun against his head. 

“Do not move,” Neam chided. “You will ruin the pattern.”

Neither the gun nor the grip that threatened to dislocate his shoulder at any moment, however, was enough to make John hold still while this maniac carved some sort of intricate, curling design into his chest, peeling strips of skin off.

Mitchell looked about ready to throw up himself when John looked over at him, forcing himself to take his eyes off the knife and the blood. They shared a brief look of mutual helplessness, then John ground his teeth and closed his eyes. The pain was bad enough. He didn't need the nightmares of watching that knife move.

***

John knew he was reaching the ends of his endurance when Neam finally sat back to admire his handiwork. Exhaustion was clouding his mind, setting off a fine tremor in his limbs. He was so far past thirst he would actually accept if Neam were to offer him any water. He was reaching the point where death was starting to look way too attractive. In a way, it was a relief that he didn't have the information Neam was interested in, that there was nothing he could do to stop things. At least he didn't have to worry about breaking, about telling.

Guy number two let go of him now that Neam was finished for the moment, and John sagged to the floor, holding on to consciousness by a mere thread. 

Neam was talking to Mitchell again, cajoling him as he wiped the blood from his blade onto the lapel of Mitchell's jacket. 

“You are a very, very stubborn man, Colonel Mitchell. But even the most stubborn man has things he cannot bear. We have time. Even if you have been missed by now, the Tau'ri will not easily find you.” John watched blearily as Neam stood, cocking his head in consideration. 

“I have heard things about the Tau'ri from the Jaffa. You have many strange rules, especially for your soldiers.” He glanced back at John, smirking, before turning around again. “And your friend is very beautiful. Silak did wish us to be careful so he would not die too soon, but it appears to me that we will not get the information we want that way. And Silak is not here, now is he?”

'Oh, shit', John thought as Neam hauled him to his knees with a grip on the back of his ruined shirt a moment later. He didn't like the sound of that _at all_. He knew damn well where this was going, and it was somewhere he'd tried to keep his mind away from since this had started. He'd seen the looks Neam had given him, and he knew the type of man Neam was. He'd killed quite a few of them. 

Neam's assistant torturer walked over, pulling John's gun out of his belt, pointing it at John's head again, as a brutal hand gripped the back of his neck, forcing his torso down until he had to spread his knees for balance, what with his hands still tied behind his back. The muzzle of the gun, _his own damn gun_ , touched the top of his head, a silent warning. 

And, God, there were hands on his hips, shoving his empty gun belts out of the way, fumbling clumsily with the clasps holding the ties of his pants. 

He didn't know whether he could do this. He already needed way too many hours with Kate for his tastes, but he didn't know how he'd come back from this. He'd seen what it had done to Franklin, how he'd never been the same after the Genii were through with him, after Ronon and John rescued him, dragging him out of that stable, after John shot every damn motherfucking bastard spawn of a Luvian swamp slug of them, but not before they could do this to one of his men. He'd seen how a calm, competent man turned into a distrustful, bloodthirsty, manic-depressive wreck. And Franklin hadn't been the kind of guy who was frequently warned by his psychologist to keep an eye on those homicidal tendencies of his. Not like John.

John ground his teeth, and squeezed his eyes shut, and tried to ignore the feeling of those goddamn _hands_ on his body when Mitchell shouted “Stop! God, stop!”

Relief washed through John as Neam did stop, as his hands left John's body.

“I'll talk, okay?” Mitchell was saying. “I'll give you what you want, just don't... don't do that.”

John slumped to the side as Neam stood and the gun left his head. He knew this was bad, he knew Mitchell shouldn't talk, but he couldn't help but feel one hell of a lot of gratitude for the guy at the moment, consequences for the galaxy be damned. And when he opened his eyes, Neam was standing in front of him, side to him, gun loosely held in his right hand, attention focused on Mitchell. The second guy was on his way over to Mitchell as he tugged John's other gun back into his belt. Suddenly, John didn't feel quite so tired any more, suddenly, his mind was crystal clear. And the leather cord around his wrists was stretching, giving, as he put strain on it.

***

Cam knew giving the Lucian Alliance any intel on Earth's ship facilities was a very, very bad thing, but... but he couldn't watch this. Not _this_. It had been hard enough to watch everything else, but... Neam was right. There was always something a guy couldn't bear, and watching Sheppard, who'd toughened everything else out, who had proved during every second of this damn day how admirable a man he was, watching him kneeling there, muscles visibly bunching in his jaw as he obviously prepared himself to endure this, too... watching that, Cam couldn't let it happen.

Of course, now that he'd stopped it, now that Neam was watching him with avid eyes, he actually had to deliver. The question was, lie or follow through? Buy time? And what would happen once they had the information they wanted from him? What would stop them from just killing them both? What would stop Neam from raping Sheppard anyway? Because, Cam might not be an expert at this, but Neam had seemed eager for it. But if he lied now, and they found out before Sheppard and he could escape or got rescued... the next time would be worse. Now that they knew that they could push Cam's buttons with rape... he didn't even want to imagine what they could think up to make sure he told them the truth. 

“So... how about a bit of water? I'm really thirsty, and if you want me to do a lot of talking...”

Neam's hand with the gun went up, pointing right at his head. “Talk.”

“Okay, okay!” Cam said quickly, and he hadn't finished the last syllable when Sheppard _moved_. 

One second, he was looking up at Neam and the gun, the next there was another body there, moving with power and grace, and very, very fast. Suddenly, there was Sheppard, on his feet, eyes calm and cold, dark threads hanging from his wrists, his elbow planting itself under Neam's jaw with a sharp crunch, his left hand slipping around the gun as Neam's eyes bugged out, his legs folded, his fingers went lax around the grip. The gun swung, away from Cam, to point at the second man and the shot caught him dead centre in the chest while he was still in the process of turning towards the source of sound and movement, his hand still on its way to draw the gun in his belt. 

Cam blinked, twice, still trying to catch up to what was happening. There was Neam, on the floor, clawing at his throat, heels drumming on the stones. Noises passed his lips, broken, chocking, rattling, wheezing noises that Cam never wanted to hear again. There was Sheppard, standing above him, feet braced apart shoulder-wide, ruined shirt hanging open from his shoulders, gun now in his right hand, pointed at Neam. Neam's eyes were staring up at him, wide and flickering with animal panic. And for a moment, just a tiny moment, Sheppard just stood there and watched, eyes cold and satisfied and utterly without pity.

Then he shot Neam in the head. 

The kicking heels stilled as the top half of his head turned into a red and grey splatter on the floor. Sheppard was crouching down almost before they had stopped moving, switched the gun to his left again as he economically patted Neam down, grabbed the knife he'd been tortured with, cut through Neam's belt to slip off the sheath and then moved over to the other corpse. He grabbed his second gun out of the man's belt, took the key to the shackles out of his coat pocket, and quickly patted him down as well. He stopped by the door for a moment to listen, then he came over to Mitchell, steps almost noiseless despite the stone floor and crouched down to open the shackles. 

For a few moments, he was very close to Cam, and Cam could see the blood that was still sluggishly running from the chest wound, red and glistening over brown, cracked crusts. He could see the burn marks high on Sheppard's shoulders and the back of his neck where his shirt hung loose as he bent over to reach behind Cam, burn marks where they had actually shoved the Goa'uld torture rod into his skin. He could smell the stale sweat that cloaked him. 

But Sheppard's hands were steady when they inserted the key into the lock, snapping the shackles open, his eyes were clear when they met Cam's from inches away. 

Cam had to clench his teeth to not moan in pain as he moved his hands, his arms, from behind his back. Sheppard crouched next to him, guns in his hands, eyes on the door. It couldn't have been more than a few minutes, and since no guards had come rushing in right away, Cam assumed the thick door and walls had been enough to contain the quiet, electrical discharge of Sheppard's guns. Still, they had to move if they wanted to keep the advantage of surprise. That, however, was easier said than done, Cam found out when he attempted to stand and had to lean against the wall for purchase. He'd been sitting in the same position for many hours, on an ice-cold, damp floor, and those of his muscles that hadn't cramped up into painful knots were asleep from lack of circulation.

Sheppard didn't take his attention off the door as Cam slowly stretched each limb, tried to get feeling and control back. The quiet, unwavering way he stared, waited, was a bit creepy, if Cam was honest. 

Once he was sure he wouldn't stumble and fall on his face at the worst moment possible, Cam crouched down next to Sheppard. 

“Now what?” he murmured.

“Here.” Sheppard held one of the guns out to him. He pointed at a small switch at the side once Cam had taken it. “Kill.” He flicked it to a different setting. “Stun.” Then he flicked it back. 

Cam nodded to show his understanding, then raised the gun, sighted along it experimentally. It was heavier than he was used to, much bulkier and with a longer barrel, but he was sure he could handle it fine. 

Sheppard nodded at the door. 

“Get out. Shoot the guards. Get into the woods. Fast.” His voice was a hoarse murmur.

“Okie-dokie,” Cam agreed. “Sounds like a plan.” Sheppard raised an eyebrow at him, gave a very faint, wry grin, more a curl of one corner of his lips, and pushed off to move towards the door.

Cam joined him, and they pressed themselves to opposite sides off the door, guns up, just like in any bad cop show you've ever seen. Sheppard gave the door a try with one hand, pushing it outwards, and it moved just slightly. His eyes met Cam's for just a moment, and then he kicked the door open, dropped in what seemed to be the same move, rolling through, shots already issuing while Cam was still moving around the door frame, high to complement Sheppard's low assault. Holy crap, that man was _fast_! 

There was nothing for Cam to shoot any more, the ex-prime of Ba'al already stretched out on the floor, chest smoking. There were no other guards in sight, the corridor clear in both directions. They hurried to the entrance, just a door-less exit, and peered out, both against the walls again. 

For once, luck was on their side. It was night outside, either still or again, the camp only lit by the fires and a few torches on long poles planted into the ground. 

Sheppard motioned him to get down low to the ground, and they moved out of the building in a deep crouch, guns at the ready, backs to the wall. 

Cam took a quick look around the corner when they reached it while Sheppard's eyes roamed across the camp. He touched Sheppard's shoulder lightly, briefly, and gestured him around the corner. The man slid past him noiselessly while Cam covered their retreat. 

There were only a few dark tents between them and the woods since the prison building was at the back end of the camp. This area was unlit, and there were no guards in sight. Apparently, prisoners were not expected to escape. 

They hurried over the grass, low down and quietly. Cam silently cursed the fact that he had been abducted in his dress uniform when his shoes slid on the wet blades. There was a final strip of open ground, maybe thirty feet wide, that sent his heart pounding as they hurried across it, but then the forest loomed in front of them, black and tangled. Sheppard barely made a sound as he slid into it. Cam winced as he stepped on at least two twigs, the ground at his feet invisible in the darkness, as he followed the vague smudge of white that was Sheppard's shirt. 

They stopped after several minutes, crouching down beside a blacker shadow in the darkness that Cam assumed was a tree. The fire lights from the camp were a diffuse, orange glow somewhere back the way they came. 

“Okay,” Cam whispered. “Escape accomplished. Now what?”

“Gain the high ground,” Sheppard's abused voice rasped back. “Wait for daylight. Find the gate. Hope they don't have dogs,” he tagged on after a moment.

“Sheppard, it's pitch-dark. I'm all for getting some distance between us and those bastards, but I can't see my hand in front of my face, never mind where I put my feet. We could break our necks in this darkness. And what if there's wild animals around?”

“I'll lead. And camp's not fortified, no killing zone, almost at the edge of th' forest. No major animal threat.”

“O-kay...” Cam knew he sounded doubtful, but, hell... they had two guns (if two awesome guns), one knife, no flashlights, no night goggles, no provisions, and he was wearing damn _dress shoes_. All in all, they were singularly badly equipped to hike through an alien forest in the middle of the night.

But Sheppard moved, briefly rested a hand on Cam's arm, and then Cam was once more following the vague, ghostly splotch of white that was his back.

***

It was one of the most surreal experiences of his life. The forest was quiet around them, but the wind was rustling the leaves and there were little, unidentified noises that could be tiny alien animals going about their business or big alien animals stalking them. How Sheppard navigated the darkness, Cam had no idea, but he moved confidently, setting a slow but steady pace uphill, and didn't lead them into any bogs, canyons or other traps of nature. His steps were quiet, a soft rustle of dry leaves sometimes, or the slight swish of vegetation against the leather of his pants, hardly noticeable. By contrast, Cam felt like a clumsy idiot. There always seemed to be a dead branch to stumble over, thorns noisily catching and ripping in his clothes, his damn shoes sliding on leaves.

***

After what seemed like a dream-like eternity, but was probably only about an hour, soft, silvery light finally started to penetrate the forest, outlining at least the trees and major obstacles, as a moon rose somewhere off to the side. Sheppard gained a definite outline in front of Cam. They continued on like that, slightly faster than before, for a long, quiet time. Cam tried to read his watch, but it was an analogue watch, no back light, and the moonlight was too weak and diffuse for him to make out anything other than that he was wearing a watch.

The moonlight grew stronger, and Sheppard stopped where the forest obviously left off, night sky visible through the last of the trees. Cam stepped up to him and looked out over a little rocky outcropping, sparse grass glowing black and silver in the light of a tight cluster of three moons off to the right. He made to step out of the trees, but Sheppard's hand on his arm stopped him. He looked to the side to find the other man shaking his head, then sinking into a crouch, moving out carefully and slowly, stopping for long moments every couple of steps to look left and right, to listen. Finally, he moved out of the cover of the trees, and lowered himself all the way to the ground, robbing forward to the tip of the outcropping. He looked down over the edge, then pulled his head back and waved Cam over. Cam wasn't sure how anyone would see them up here in this darkness, but better safe than sorry, as his grandma would say, so he followed Sheppard's example and robbed up the little rock on his stomach. What the hell, after all, his dress blues were a lost cause anyway. 

When he got a chance to glance over the edge of the rock, he was glad for Sheppard's caution, because the camp was right below them, maybe three miles of forested hillside separating them. It was a bright, orange-red cluster of lights nestled in the blackness of a valley, hills encroaching it from three sides. The faint glitter of a big stream or a small river snaked away from it through silver-brushed grass on the fourth side, straight on the other side of the camp. They could make out little figures rushing around between the tents, faint shouts drifting up to them.

“So they've noticed we got away,” Cam murmured quietly. 

Sheppard nodded.

They watched as a group of people assembled on a central space between the tents, all around lit by torches on poles. For a while, people milled around, joining and leaving the group, waving their arms as they talked. The glint of torchlight on chain mail and the long black shadows of staff lances made it clear that a good part of the group were Jaffa. Most of them finally moved off, in a tight formation, out of the camp at the river valley, fanning out a bit when they reached the grassy flats next to the water. Cam and Sheppard watched their progress, marked by three tiny orange specks of torches slowly moving further away. The rest of the camp seemed to settle down, after that, though there were now guards patrolling the edges, torches in hand, that hadn't been there before. 

Cam and John retreated from the edge of the rock, lay in the grass where they could be sure they couldn't be seen from below. 

“Rest,” Sheppard suggested, warm breath faintly brushing Cam's face. 

“Yeah,” Cam agreed. Now that he had a little light to see by, Sheppard's eyes were barely visible in the black shadows under his brows. God, the man must be beat. It was hard to estimate, but if Cam's sense of time wasn't completely off, it had been at least fifteen hours since they'd been kidnapped, and Sheppard had spend most of that time being tortured. Where he'd found the energy for their escape was a mystery to Cam. They also hadn't had any food, and worse, any water for that time. Hell, the last time Cam had drunk anything non-alcoholic was at breakfast, which seemed like an eternity ago. Speaking of which... 

“Sheppard? I really need to take a leak. I'll just head over to that bush there, okay?” 

Sheppard seemed to study the bush in question for a moment, then he nodded– and went over there himself after Cam made it back in one piece. 

They settled down on the grassy side of the rock, under the moonlight, close enough to the edge to check with a little stretch and a look what was going on in the camp, and far enough down not to be visible. 

It would've been almost peaceful, almost beautiful, if the rock wasn't kind of hard, the grass kind of scratchy, the forest kind of threatening, and the air kind of cold. Cam shivered. Now that they weren't moving any more, his uniform felt ridiculously thin. Then he glanced guiltily at Sheppard, who had nothing but a ripped shirt to keep him warm, and was much worse for wear than Cam.

“Sheppard?” There was a vague motion from the dark head. “You cold?”

A pause, then Sheppard moved, scooting up to Cam. To his surprise, Cam suddenly found Sheppard cuddled up to his side, head almost resting on his shoulder, breath brushing against his neck. “Yeah,” Sheppard said, and Cam could hear the wryness in the tone even though Sheppard's voice still wasn't up to anything but a hoarse whisper. Cam hesitated for a moment, then reached out a hand to rest it on Sheppard's shoulder. 

“Christ, you are!” he exclaimed, maybe a bit louder than necessary, when he felt the chill of the skin even through the material of the shirt. He sat up, took off his uniform jacket and then lay down again, tugging on Sheppard's arm to get him on top of himself. 

“Come on,” he encouraged when Sheppard didn't move right away. “You know I'm not going to hurt you, and this isn't the time to be prudish.” Since he couldn't really read Sheppard's expression in the dark, he had no idea what the actual issue was, but those were his best guesses. Sheppard made a soft noise that might have been a chuckle, and then he moved, arranging himself so he was curled up mostly on top of Cam, head under his chin and their legs tangled up. Cam tossed the jacket over both of them, and though it wasn't much, it was better than nothing. True, it wasn't entirely comfortable, Sheppard's weight pressing him into the cold, rocky ground, but at least he was slightly warmer than before. He didn't fall asleep, and he didn't think Sheppard did, but he drifted, let his body rest, and at least they were free, so that was better than nothing.

***


	9. Chapter 9

At first, Cam didn't even notice the growing light, drifting along in a half-asleep state, vaguely hoping for dawn and maybe the warmth of a sun, because every part of him that wasn't in immediate contact with Sheppard was miserably cold. Then he noticed that the sky had somehow turned from black to a cloudy grey, that the stars and the moonlight were gone, that he could make out the tips of Sheppard's hair when he glanced down, standing in all directions, tickling his chin. 

He was still exhausted, eyes gritty, but if it was light enough to see by it was only a question of time until the Jaffa down in the camp picked up their trail. 

“Sheppard?” 

The man didn't stir, so Cam reached over with his left hand to gently shake his shoulder, his right arm trapped between their bodies and the ground, pretty much dead asleep.

It took two shakes before Sheppard lifted his head, blinked at him blearily, eyes focusing with difficulty. 

“How you doing?” Cam asked, worry about the other man displacing his own discomfort. 

Sheppard sat up, rubbed at his eyes with a hand.

“Been better,” he croaked, then licked his lips. “Thirsty.”

“Yeah.” Cam nodded. “Me too. Think we could make it to the river?”

In answer, Sheppard turned around and crawled upwards to stick his head over the top of the rock. Cam followed suit, took a look down and shared a despairing look with Sheppard.

“No,” Sheppard said and Cam nodded. Several groups of Jaffa were already down there, fanned out, searching for them.

They drew their heads back and sat up out of sight from below.

“So now what?” Cam asked quietly. Last night, it had seemed that, if they just made it to daylight, things would somehow become better, easier. Now, in the light of day, they looked worse. 

“The gate,” Sheppard whispered, more to go easy on his vocal chords than because they could attract attention up here. The search seemed pretty focused on the valley at the moment. 

“Yeah, cool, great.” Cam nodded vigorously. “Only, where _is_ the gate?”

Sheppard considered for a moment, looked up at the sky, over at the trees, and then waved a hand vaguely in the direction of a forested ridge pushing into the valley further downstream.

“'bout 15, 20 miles tha' way.”

Cam blinked, then blinked again. 

“O-kay... Er... how'd you figure that?”

Sheppard raised an eyebrow at him. 

“'s the direction the ship came from, 's the direction the camp's pointed to. Ship flies a' 'bout a hundred miles an hour in atmosphere, flew 'bout ten minutes ground to ground... So, 'bout 20 miles as the jumper flies. 'Sides, i's where they're searching, must be the way we should go.”

“Okay. Okay, I'm convinced. So, how do we get there? Did you happen to see a ship or something we could steal?”

Sheppard shook his head. “No ship, no transport animals, no tech.”

Cam sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “Great. Me neither. How the hell do we get there?”

Sheppard raised the eyebrow again, shrugged. “Walk.”

Cam looked out over the lightening landscape, the mountainous terrain, covered with dense forest. Looked at Sheppard. Looked down at his own damn dress shoes.

“The valley's crawling with Jaffa.”

Sheppard nodded, tilted his head towards the ridge in the distance. “Through the forest. Cover. Harder to track.”

“Sheppard,” Cam said quietly. “It won't be twenty miles over that terrain. It'll be fifty– at least. Fifty miles of alien forest, with no roads, over rocky ground, with who knows what sorts of dangerous plants and animals. Fifty miles without provisions, without _water_.”

“I know.” Sheppard looked back at him, calmly. 

Cam rubbed his hand over his face again as if he could rub off the exhaustion, the feeling of defeat before they had even started, the dark forest seeming to stretch out into the distance maliciously, mocking him with its unordered, impenetrable mass of trees. 

Fifty or more miles of forest. Yeah, sure, he'd done that before. With proper equipment, with maps and compasses, with food and water, with clothing that was appropriate for the weather... not in his dress blues, almost, he checked his watch, almost twenty hours after his last solid meal, on an alien planet. Not with a man who shouldn't even be able to stand any more, never mind calmly contemplate the hike from hell. Because Sheppard... Sheppard looked like death warmed over. Black stubble served to somewhat disguise the vivid bruise on the side of his face, but it didn't hide the slight swelling along his jaw, or the chapped cut in his lip. He was chalky-pale, the shadows under his eyes so black they looked like bruises as well. Lines of pain and exhaustion bracketed his mouth and eyes, and suddenly, inexplicably surprising, reminded Cam that he wasn't sitting next to a twenty-five year old rookie, but a forty-five year old seasoned veteran. 

Cam dropped his eyes from Sheppard's drawn face to assess the rest of his condition. 

The wound on his chest was messily crusted with blood, and looked sore and swollen. Cam felt his stomach churn. Yes, he'd seen a lot of nasty, and just plain disgusting, things during the course of his military career, but to skin a man alive, with attention to detail... it took a special kind of creative cruelty in a mind for that. 

Bruises mottled most of Sheppard's torso and mid-section, and Cam remembered the staff-blast he'd taken to the chest before the torture had even started. God, the man must _hurt_...! Cam's eyes finally came to rest on Sheppard's hands, loosely resting on his leather-clad thighs, and he noticed the remains of the leather cord that Sheppard had been tied with, still wrapped around his wrists, dark with blood, biting into raw, sore skin. 

“Christ!” he exclaimed. “Why haven't you gotten rid of those yet?!”

“Hm?” Sheppard blinked, then looked down. “Oh. Didn't think of it.”

“Didn't...? Let me see that.” He reached for one of Sheppard's hands, waited for a flinch that didn't come before he picked it up. Sheppard sat compliantly, let him turn the arm around. 

“We gotta get these off before your hands fall off dead,” he grumbled when he saw how deeply the leather bit into Sheppard's wrist. That was easier said then done, however. He experimentally tried to pry the cord off with his fingers, again waiting for a flinch that didn't come when he reached out to touch it. Apparently, Sheppard was content to let him try, simply watched with slightly raised eyebrows as he started to unwind the cord one loop at a time, revealing deep abrasions, fresh, bright blood welling to the surface in places. 

Sheppard flexed his fingers for a moment when the cord was gone and nodded his thanks, then started on the other wrist himself. 

“If we find some water along the way, you better clean that,” Cam observed, not liking the combination of dirty leather and open sores. Sheppard nodded silently, dropped the pieces, and stood. For a moment he swayed, and Cam thought he was about to pass out, but then he straightened his shoulders and cocked a questioning eyebrow down at Cam. Cam got the message and heaved himself to his feet as well. 

“Okay, then. Let's start walking!”

Sheppard nodded, but then reached to unfasten one of his holsters, the right one, and held it out to Cam. Cam looked at the holster, then at Sheppard's gun, which he'd been carrying in his hand during their nightly adventure.

“Oh, thanks,” he said, feeling a bit silly, as he reached to take the holster, handing Sheppard the gun to have his hands free. 

It felt unfamiliar to close the buckle at his side, over his left hip, and to wear a holster over his dress pants, but it beat carrying the gun in his hand. He practised drawing it a couple of times, and it wasn't as fast and smooth as he would have been with more familiar equipment, but it would do. 

Sheppard took another look at the sky before they entered the forest, obviously getting his bearings, and then they set off. Cam just hoped Sheppard knew what he was doing, and where they were going.

***

“Anything?” Ronon rumbled as he stepped up next to where Rodney was desolately staring at the main screen.

“No. Nothing. Not so much as a blip, and I've extended the sensors as far as I can. Ronon...” He turned his head to look up at the warrior. “What do we do?” He hated how helpless he sounded, but... but this was _John_.

Ronon was silent for a moment. “We'll find him,” he answered then, eyes narrowing, and Rodney wished he could believe that all it took was enough determination. Unfortunately, he was far too intelligent for that.

“What if we don't? This galaxy is _huge_! We couldn't search Pegasus for him, never mind the Milky Way! And we don't have contacts here, don't have spies, don't have _friends_ , and what... what if he's already dead?! His beacon wouldn't last much longer if he's dead, it's already been over twenty-four hours, and it'll run out of energy soon, and then we have no chance of finding him, and we won't ever know what happened...!”

“McKay!” Ronon's bellow interrupted his rant, and he snapped his mouth shut, tried to wrestle the hysteria down again. 

“We'll _find_ him,” Ronon repeated, and he said it in such a tone, a tone he usually reserved for death threats, that Rodney believed that, maybe, they really would.

“I'll go call the SGC,” he said after a deep breath. “Maybe they've found something.”

***

“'Scuse me,” Jack heard Daniel mutter to the guard as he stumbled through the door. Jack raised an eyebrow. Daniel gave him a phenomenal frown.

“Is there a reason I'm not invited to these things any more, or have you forgotten my email address?”

“Daniel.”

“Jack.” Daniel folded his arms across his chest, frown still in place.

Jack shared a look with Landry, who didn't look too happy about the interruption, and Davies, who'd just flown down from Washington.

“Daniel,” he repeated. “It's a meeting about base security. I didn't know you had any interest in that.”

The look Daniel gave him was _very_ unimpressed. 

“You're discussing base security because of what happened with the Atlantians,” he pointed out in that terribly reasonable tone of his.

“Ye-es,” Jack answered. “Obviously, our security isn't very effective if people can just walk in here and take hostages.” It sort of bugged him how everyone had taken to call the expedition members “the Atlantians”.

“Which might not have happened if someone had bothered to invite me to any of the meetings where policy for dealing with them was established!” 

With a start, Jack realized that Daniel was genuinely angry. Not just annoyed, not just bitchy, but genuinely _angry_. 

“Daniel...”

“No! I've been here all the time that I wasn't off-world for the last month, I've written the SGC _official hand-book_ on first contact and how to deal with alien cultures, and not _once_ has anyone asked my opinion on how to approach the Atlantians!”

Jack frowned. “They're not an alien culture.”

Daniel looked at him as if he'd lost his mind. “Of _course_ they are!” he exclaimed, waving his hands. 

“No, they're not,” Jack insisted stubbornly. “They're not like any of the other actual aliens we've encountered because they were born _here_.”

Daniel walked properly into the room and took a seat at the table, not waiting for an invitation, leaned forward earnestly. 

“But they're not _from_ here any more, Jack! They have spent a _decade_ in a different galaxy! They're not the same people who left here all these years ago.”

“I'm aware of _that_ ,” Jack answered with a growl. “Seeing as they wouldn't have put a _gun_ to Carter's head ten years ago!”

Daniel sighed and rubbed at the bridge of his nose, pushing his glasses up. “I'm not saying I approve of that, Jack, but we have to de-escalate now, before it comes to an open conflict.”

“Open conflict? Daniel, there were _guns_ pointed at people inside the base! I'd say that qualifies as open conflict!”

“But they didn't kill anyone!” Daniel argued back. “No one was even hurt! It was as much a warning as anything, Jack. And from everything I've seen so far, that fact alone is already a show of trust, a proof of their willingness to cooperate.”

“Trust? You call McKay holding a gun to Carter's head a show of trust?!”It had been years since he'd had reason to doubt Daniel's word, to doubt that he knew what he was doing, but, right now? Yeah, very much so.

“He didn't shoot. He let you talk him down with practically nothing in your favour. We lost _Sheppard_ , Jack! We asked him to come alone, on short notice, and he agreed, and then we _lost_ him! I don't think they would have reacted like that if it wasn't Sheppard of all people...”

He trailed off, a thoughtful look on his face.

“How do you figure that?” Jack asked before Daniel could drift off into Daniel-land and forget about them entirely. 

“Hm? Oh, well, I've not spent _that_ much time with the Atlantians...” and the look he gave Jack made it perfectly clear who he blamed for that, “...but from everything I've observed, Sheppard...” Daniel visibly struggled for words to explain for a moment. “He's _central_. He's the one they orient around, the one who sets the tone for any interaction with us. When he steps into a room, every Atlantian turns towards him, when there's a decision to be made they look to him for guidance, when he speaks they all listen. The only one I have ever heard interrupt him is McKay, and he seems to hold almost the same central position as Sheppard. Don't you see?” Daniel looked at them with serious blue eyes. “Sheppard's their highest ranking military officer. He's like... their President. Well, in point of fact, he's more like an early-medieval king, or a tribal chief, who gains the fealty of his vassals in exchange for the protection of the kingdom for the community...”

“Daniel,” Jack interrupted and Daniel shut up and blinked quizzically at him. 

“Are you saying that we should treat Sheppard like visiting royalty, or something?”

Daniel frowned for a moment, a thoughtful frown, not a disapproving one, then his face cleared. 

“Yes! Yes, I'm sure that'd make things go much smoother with the Atlantians.”

“But... he's just a _guy_ ,” Jack argued. 

“No, Jack, he's not! That's what I'm trying to say, you keep treating him like the Major that left here ten years ago when he's pointed out multiple times that he's the _Supreme Commander_ of an army, and possibly an armada of ships, of an alliance of an unspecified number of alien planets, armed with technology that is _superior_ to ours!”

“We are well aware of that, Doctor Jackson,” Davies pointed out. Quite rightfully, Jack thought, since that was a big part of the issue, after all.

“Well, yes, I know you are, but at the same time, you're _not_!”

Everyone looked at him.

“Look, what I'm trying to say is, you're not treating him like a potential ally worthy of respect and careful negotiation, like we would, say, the Asgard, but instead you treat him like a potentially dangerous liability with delusions of grandeur! You don't _accept_ his new rank and status, you're humouring him! You think he's the one who's lost sight of reality when really, it's you who are unwilling to accept the reality of what he _is_ , what he's become, what the expedition has become! They're not an expedition any more, they're a colony! And just like the American colonies eventually outgrew their dependency from their mother country and started to form their own, unique culture, so did the Atlantians. They _had_ to! We _left_ them! We haven't done a thing for them for the last ten years, since they set out, and _they don't owe us anything_!”

“They grew up here!” Jack had to protest. “They were educated here, some of them still have family here for crying out loud!”

Daniel turned those earnest eyes on him. “Yes, and they've acknowledged that connection when they sent their highest-ranking military commander with what I suspect is their most advanced ship here, at great personal risk, to defend us from the Wraith. They took heavy losses, just as we did. People who have never set foot on this planet, who were born in a different galaxy, died to defend _us_. And they did it because Sheppard told them to. What more can we _ask_ for?”

Jack crossed his arms, frowning at Daniel. He _hated_ it when the man made that much sense. And he wasn't even finished yet, of course.

“When push came to shove, they've already proven that they'll stand with us even against bad odds, that they'll share their knowledge, that they'll do what needs to be done, that we _can trust them_. And what have we shown them in return? Condescension, and hard-headedness, and greed. And _then_ –” Daniel looked around to make sure he had everyone's attention, “-then, we lost Sheppard! He trusted us enough to come down here alone. His security was for us to insure, and we _failed_. The least we can do is to do our share to keep relations peaceful, and do our best to get Sheppard back.”

Jack crossed his arms and glared. “We _are_ doing our best, Daniel! God knows that finding either Sheppard _or_ Mitchell is our best chance of finding the other one, too! And I get it, ok? Sheppard's important, but that _still_ doesn't excuse them storming in here with guns and threatening to kill people!”

“Well, yes, I admit, that was a bit extreme... but they didn't actually kill anyone, so can't you just let it go?”

“No.”

“Gentlemen,” Landry chided before Daniel could retort, and they both fell silent. Landry nodded at them. “Thank you. Now...”

The door opened again, and Walter stuck his head in. “Yes, Walter?”

“Sir, we're receiving a communication from the Cyrinius. It's Dr McKay.”

Landry sighed and nodded. “Thank you, Walter. I'll be there in a moment.” He turned back to the table at large. “As I was going to say, I hear you, both of you. Jack, we'll get right on implementing the new security protocols, and then we'll see what still needs to be done. Dr Jackson...” He shot a look at the door. “Visiting royalty, huh?” 

Daniel nodded. “Yeah. Well, I suppose Dr McKay is something like the first minister, the chief advisor to the king. He definitely seems to be the one who's de facto in charge now that Sheppard's missing, even though, if I've understood their ranking system right, Ronon Dex is now technically the highest-ranking military commander. Then again...” He cocked his head in consideration. “McKay _is_ part of the military structure from what I understand, so maybe he is actually the natural successor...”

Jack blinked, because, McKay and military? Yes, the guy was wearing a gun and a uniform, which was disturbing enough, but as actually part of a military hierarchy? Jack didn't think the man had the necessary qualities... namely, being able to follow orders. 

Landry looked similarly disturbed, but it was true that McKay had been the one in charge during their little invasion of the SGC. However, Jack had assumed that was because he was the only one who spoke English.

“Well, I guess I better go talk to the good doctor,” Landry announced, rising. “General, Colonel, Doctor Jackson, if you'll excuse me.”

Jack and Daniel looked at each other, then followed to find out what McKay was calling about. Maybe they'd found something?

It turned out that they hadn't. In fact, they were calling to see whether Carter and the SGC had found something. Since that wasn't the case, either, all parties agreed to a meeting on neutral ground to discuss their options, such as they were. They settled on the abandoned air field where the Atlantians had held their funerals, ground known to both of them.

***


	10. Chapter 10

Cam's feet slid out from under him on dead leaves, and he cursed, wind-milling his arms to keep his balance. He succeeded, but only by hugging a handy tree tightly. For just a moment, he rested his forehead against the cool, black bark with a sigh, and waited for his heart to calm down again. They were making their way down a steep slope, wet earth covered ankle deep with dead leaves making for footing that was far too treacherous for Cam's dress shoes, and far too exhausting for his tired muscles. He looked up, the way they had come, and winced at the sight of the broad swath of disturbed leaves and upturned earth that marked their descend. A blind man could follow that trail, and Cam only hoped that they had lost anyone tracking them long before now. Sheppard had led them along the ridge of the mountain, where the rock broke through the ground in long swathes and where they would leave little trace of their passing. The man placed his feet with the sure instinct Cam had until now only observed in the Sodan, his heavy boots leaving no print, turning no stone. Cam did his best to apply everything he had learned during his stay with Jolan to do the same, but he was sure he wasn't doing nearly as well. God, he simultaneously feared and wanted to see what Sheppard would do if he was in top-condition. Cam had the suspicion that the man would run circles round the Jaffa. 

The man in question had stopped a dozen feet below Cam, leaning against a tree himself, taking the opportunity for a short break as he waited for Cam. 

Cam detached himself from the tree and started downwards again, doing his best not to fall on his ass, even though all he really wanted to do was curl up and sleep until this nightmare was over. Because once they'd reached the bottom, they would have to climb the whole way up again on the other side. But there might just be a stream or something at the bottom of this little crevasse, and that would make it all worth it.

***

The bottom of the crevasse was dry. They were wading in dead leaves up to their knees, leaving another painfully obvious trail behind and making enough noise to rouse the dead, but there was no water. Cam shared a despairing look with Sheppard, and then they started up the other side. The hillside was a little less steep, but only a little, and Cam just hoped that none of them would touch anything lethal as they plunged their hands through the leaves to grasp moist earth and tangled roots for purchase.

They weren't even halfway up the slope when darkness began to fall. At first, Cam thought it was merely the weather, the already cloudy sky darkening further, but when he started to have trouble distinguishing individual leaves from each other even though they weren't more than two feet in front of his face, he realized night was falling. He checked his watch; it had been about eight hours since sunrise. Just great. Here was to hoping that the nights were similarly short, and that they hadn't ended up somewhere close enough to a pole to make for really long nights and really short days. He called to Sheppard and told him about his observation, and they considered for a moment whether they should stop where they were and rest. But it was too steep to spend the night in anything even remotely resembling comfort, so they pushed on, their breathing harsh in the fading light and the quiet of the forest, their arms and legs shaking with hunger and exhaustion. 

It was dark long before they reached the top, the same kind of pitch-dark as the night before, and once more Cam was following the vague outline of Sheppard's shirt, which wasn't quite as white as it had been. Then it vanished, and a jolt of adrenaline jerked Cam out of the stupor he'd fallen into, his thoughts vague while his body pushed on. He climbed, almost desperate, to the place where he thought he'd last seen Sheppard. The man couldn't have just vanished, right? He'd not actually been so far away with his thoughts, his attention, that he'd somehow lost sight of him? And then the pale shadow reappeared, far closer then Cam expected, in front of him, and he could feel a faint breeze on his face, and he realized that Sheppard had cleared the top of the ridge, that they'd made it. He heaved himself onto the flat ground with a groan of relief. Sheppard was sitting with his back against a tree, as far as he could make out, a figure of indistinct pale shadows. Cam crawled over to him on hands and knees, every muscle shaking with weakness, and slumped against the rough bark next to him. Their shoulders touched, warm, living flesh against his, and he was so grateful for the contact it was embarrassing. But the forest was so eerie and quiet, everything around them strange and unknown, the darkness so deep that he felt alone, isolated, dream-like when all he had to do was follow Sheppard in the darkness.

“'m not going anywhere else tonight,” he mumbled through dry lips. Sheppard made a hum of agreement and they just sat for a while in the darkness, their breathing slowly evening out. 

“One o' us should keep watch while the other sleeps,” Cam finally forced himself to say. It was difficult to force his thoughts into rational patterns, to think about actions and consequences, and even more difficult to articulate them. Sheppard made his sound of agreement again, then Cam heard his hair rasp against the tree's bark as he moved his head. 

“I c'n take first watch.”

It was tempting, it really was. Cam hadn't really slept for thirty or more hours, hadn't eaten or drunk for the same time, had spent at least ten or twelve of those hours on his feet... but Sheppard had done all that and gotten tortured on top of it. He needed the sleep more.

“No, I will.”

“But...”

Cam was way too tired to argue. “Shut up 'n go to sleep. I'll wake you later.”

There was some sort of growly huff from Sheppard, but then Cam could feel the man's head sink onto his shoulder. “Fine,” he mumbled. 

Cam leaned back against the tree, glad just to be sitting down, to not have to move, to be off his feet. He relaxed his aching, shaking muscles and tried to ignore the coolness of the night creeping into his limbs. Tomorrow, he would be so, so sore. And there would be more forest to cross, more hills to climb up and down... The thought made despair well up in him and he forced himself to stop thinking about it. So he sat, and listened to the night, and stared into the dark, and felt his shoulder go numb from Sheppard's weight on it until the man started to slide down, and Cam had to catch him, lower him across his lap, Sheppard's head now resting on his hip, breath warm against Cam's stomach. It certainly wasn't a good position to be in if they had to move quickly, but, hell, he doubted they _could_ move quickly at this point. And Sheppard was reassuringly real and comfortably warm. So Cam let him sleep, his legs falling asleep while his arm prickled with the return of circulation. 

He eventually did wake the other man when the three moons rode high in the sky, and he absolutely _had_ to sleep. Sheppard pushed himself up slowly, scrubbed a hand through his hair, but didn't comment on the position he'd found himself in. In fact, when Cam went to go to sleep against the tree, Sheppard tugged at his shoulder until he stretched himself out mostly on the forest floor and partly on Sheppard's thigh in turn. He smelled like leather and soil and alien plants, the material smooth against Cam's cheek, quickly warming between their skins. Then Cam was asleep.

***

It was daylight when he woke again, which meant it had to have been a couple of hours, even though it felt like he'd just closed his eyes a minute ago. The light was pale and colourless, and from what he could see through the canopy of leaves, it would be another cool, overcast day.

They set out, with clumsy steps and aching muscles.

***

“Okay, okay, okay.” McKay took a deep, frazzled draw from his alien cigarette. “I'll give you the frequency for Sheppard's beacon, and we'll scan for your Colonel's transmitter, all right?”

The doctor's hair was a mess, and shadows had returned under his eyes, and Jack had to acknowledge that the man probably hadn't slept since Sheppard vanished. He sure looked just as bad as he had during the last week before the Wraith's arrival. Okay, so maybe McKay really, actually, cared about what happened to Sheppard, as weird as it was to imagine McKay with any sort of attachment to a person. 

“Great!” Sam exclaimed. “Thanks, McKay. We won't help them if we don't work together.” She seemed to have gotten over the whole hostage-thing, but Jack noticed how she made sure to stay well out of McKay's reach. 

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” McKay snarled, snapped his fingers. “Give me the data, I've got to get back to work.”

***

“Daniel!” Vala's face lit up with that bright, slightly scary smile she had as Daniel leaned against the bar next to her. “What brings you out to this cozy little planet?”

“I was looking for you, actually.”

“No, really?” She angled her body towards his, leaned against the bar and made sure to give him a good view of her décolleté, framed to best advantage by a tight black leather bodice. Daniel blinked and refused to be distracted.

“Yes, really. Let's go for a little walk, how about it?”

He'd almost gotten shot twice asking around for her, and almost arrested once, and he didn't quite trust this bar and the patrons, so he didn't protest when she smiled and linked her arm with his as they left. He took his arm back once they were outside the village and told her about the situation. 

“So, you see, we were hoping you'd have some contacts or something who might have information about what's going on...”

“Ah, yes. What would you do without me?” She gave him another of those smiles and tried to take his arm again. He looked at her. 

She rolled her eyes and pouted. “Oh, fine, be that way. I'll see what I can find out, but I'm not promising anything. Ventrell runs a tight boat, as you know, and he's a very smart man, unfortunately.”

“A tight ship.”

“What?”

“The figure of speech you're looking for, it's 'a tight ship'.”

She waved him off airily. “Yes, yes, whatever. The point _is_ , Daniel, that I'll try my best, but if this is an Alliance plan, people might not talk to me.”

“Yes, yes I know that.” He pushed his glasses up, massaging the bridge of his nose. “Just give it a try, okay?”

“Sure. Anything for you, my Daniel.”

He frowned, but she just smiled again. 

“Besides, I do care for Mitchell. Somewhat. There might, however, be people who would be more willing to talk to me if I could offer them an... incentive.” She gave him a meaningful look and he sighed, pulling a pouch from his belt. 

“Yes, yes, I know, you want bribe money.”

“Uh huh.” She nodded and held out her hand. Daniel kept hold of the pouch for a moment longer and gave her a stern look. 

“Don't spend it on yourself.”

She gave him big, innocent blue eyes. “Would I ever do that?”

When he didn't reply, she threw her hands up. “Oh, fine, I would. But as I said, I do care about Mitchell. And what of this Sheppard character? Is it too much to hope for a young, handsome man who would be... _grateful_ to be rescued by a beautiful woman?”

“Well, I don't know about the 'grateful' part...”

“Oh, so he _is_ young and handsome?”

Daniel considered for a moment. “Yes,” he answered then, “yes, I guess he is.”

“Wonderful.” Vala clapped her hands together in approval, then snatched the money out of his hand. “Now, tell me why exactly Earth has faced certain annihilation, again, and no one's bothered to call _me_? Why have I not heard of this sooner?”

Daniel sighed, and resigned himself to assuaging her curiosity.

***

Cam _hated_ this forest. He really, really did. He hated these endless, identical trees, towering pillars with black bark, spreading their silvery leaves far overhead. He hated the slippery ground, the dead leaves and branches that seemed intent on tripping him, he hated the sparse alien plants that constituted the undergrowth, with their thorns and thick, tough vines. He hated the weakness in his limbs, the way his hands and knees were shaking, he hated the exhaustion that fogged his mind and made his thoughts odd and disjointed. Hunger had long stopped being a simple feeling and had turned into a hard, tightly-clenched ache in the middle of his body, and the thirst... God, the thirst was worse. It was burning, it was all-consuming, it was what his thoughts always, always returned to. He fantasized about water, about how it sparkled and shimmered in the light, how it was so cool and _wet_ to the touch, how it would feel sliding down his parched, aching throat, how it would soothe his dry, cracking lips. And it wasn't like they were even in a desert or anything! They were in a fucking temperate _forest_! Yes, he hated those trees, with their roots deep in the ground, sucking the water up into their leaves... while Cam and Sheppard had no way of getting at it at all. They could've been in a desert, for all the difference it made. And worst off all, there was a whole fucking _river_ , just a few hours to their right, and they _couldn't go there_! It was driving him mad, it really was. But he kept on walking, step after step after step, even though his goddamn dress shoes had long since given him blisters that were fiery-hot agony with every contact. He hated his shoes, too. God, what he wouldn't give for a set of his BDUs and combat boots...! Sure, the BDUs had their faults too, but they were a damn sight more practical than dress blues.

They walked, and stumbled, and climbed back to their feet, grabbed tree trunks for purchase, as the grey light alternated through darker and darker shades until night fell. They rested until the moons rose, then walked on by their light.

***

The next day, they found water. It was nothing but a pencil-thin trickle, running out of a crack in a rock and turning the ground around it muddy. It might as well have been... Cam didn't know. Ambrosia came to mind. They had to practically lick it off the rock, but it was wonderful, and who the hell cared what sort of alien germs they were contracting?

They spend almost two hours at the rock, drinking what they could before Sheppard tried to somewhat clean his wounds. They had no way to take any of the water with them. For a while, they considered soaking their shirts, but the climate was cool as it was and they couldn't afford to lose the body heat. So, after lingering a moment longer to take another sip, they set out again.

***

Rodney didn't actually expect to find anything when he calibrated the sensors to search for Colonel Poster-boy's transmitter signal. After all, if they didn't pick up Sheppard's beacon, which was meant to broadcast over inter-planetary distances and had a considerably stronger signal, why should they pick up Mitchell's subcutaneous transmitter, which was merely a tool to lock on for a beam, and had therefore only enough power to be detected on a planet from orbit? Of course, with the ZPM boosting their sensors, the Cyrinius' long-range detection had increased to over ten times its normal capabilities. Which wasn't as much as it sounded, considering how damn _huge_ a galaxy was.

And then there was a beep and a dot on the screen. There was a signal on the screen that had stayed frustratingly, terrifyingly empty during all of Rodney's previous attempts. His fingers were flying across the controls, zooming in on the signal even as he tried to keep the hope in check that flared to life brightly in his chest. A signal alone... could mean anything. Maybe they'd find both of them, but maybe they wouldn't. Maybe they'd both be alive, maybe one of them, maybe none of them... No. He ruthlessly shoved the hope away, concentrated on locating the origin of the signal. 

It came from a planet, at least, from the looks of it. At least no-one had gotten tossed through a space gate... Then he remembered that there were no space gates in the Milky Way, or there hadn't been when he left here. Well, it didn't matter. 

He commed Ronon and the SGC, informed them of his discovery, and forwarded the data. Half an hour later, they had established that there was a gate on the planet, that they had the address in the database, and, after a bit of grumbling and negotiating, that Sam, Rodney, Ronon and a bunch of marines would go to check it out once the obligatory MALP scan was done.

***

O'Neill was frowning mightily at them when they stepped into the gate room, but Rodney ignored him in favour of checking that his gun was loaded and the safety on, that his tablet had enough battery life left to last him a while, that he was stocked up on food, water and C4... all the usual pre-mission routine things, which he'd already done twice on the Cyrinius and another three times during the flight to the planet, but going over it again and again was better than listening to the hysterical voice in the back of his head speculating about what they would find, oscillating between hope and despair.

Ronon just stood there, towering, arms crossed over his chest and looked up at the gate. 

“That doesn't look like those at home,” he observed. Rodney nodded absently.

“Well, yes, we figure these are the older model, and the Ancients updated the design and some functions when they build the Pegasus gates. The Milky Way gates, for example, don't have a translation function.”

Ronon tilted his head to give Rodney a look. “I noticed,” he observed dryly and Rodney looked up from checking his vest pocket for the life signs detector. 

“Yes, yes, of course you did.” He waved Ronon off, then noticed the questioning looks on the faces of Carter and the marines. “Oh, Ronon just observed that gates in Pegasus look different.”

“They do?” Carter practically brimmed with her usual bright enthusiasm. “Why, what's different?” 

“They're... blue,” Rodney waved vaguely at the chevrons. “The crystals, I mean. The symbols are different too, of course. Now can we get on with this?”

Carter blinked at him, then nodded. “Yes, yes, of course.”

She looked up at the window, and Landry's voice informed them over the speakers that they had a go while what was his name, Walter?, dialled up the gate. Rodney drummed his fingers on the butt of his gun as the inner ring spun and the chevrons locked. Ancients be damned, this thing was _slow_...!

The wormhole finally established, and Rodney had to force himself to walk up the ramp in an orderly fashion, instead of taking it at a run. 

They stepped out into warm evening sunshine, thick and golden as honey, an endless spread of grass softly swaying in the breeze. The marines started down the stairs, ready to fan out, but Ronon stretched his arm out back towards them, palm facing backwards, and they stopped. So did Rodney, without even thinking about it, and then nearly growled when he realized how fucking well trained Sheppard had him in those damn hand signs by now. 

Ronon took point, gun loosely in his hand, and crouched on the last step of the little pedestal. He surveyed the ground before he moved out onto the grass with the easy care of the experienced hunter, but even Rodney could see that this area had seen a fair bit of traffic at some point in the last couple of days. 

“What is he doing?” Sam hissed at Rodney.

“Checking the tracks before we trample all over them,” Rodney answered, not bothering to hide that he thought that should be obvious. “And if there's anything to find, he will. Ronon's one of the best trackers I've ever met.”

“O-kay... met a lot of trackers, have you, McKay?”

Rodney turned his head away from watching Ronon to scowl at her.

“As a matter of fact, I have. In fact, I'm not all that bad myself.” Sure, he preferred to track spaceships by their minute traces of radiation or something similarly scientifically challenging, but that didn't mean he couldn't follow a trail through a forest. Carter seemed to be of a different opinion.

“You?!” The incredulity was a bit insulting. 

He sniffed. “You tend to pick a few things up pretty damn quick if it means the difference between a hearty dinner or starving to death.”

“Starving?” Carter sounded rather shocked. 

He gave her an incredulous look. “Do you know how hard it is to feed over two hundred people if you're on a foreign planet, the super storm from hell has wiped out the harvest you've been counting on and every potential new ally either sells you out to the Wraith, the slave-trader on the next planet over or your mortal enemies, or doesn't trust you 'cause they think _you_ might do one or all of the above? You bet we almost starved, the lot of us, during Year 2. So, yeah, we had a lot of motivation to learn from the natives.”

“But... you took seeds with you, you had people with a background in agriculture... We anticipated that you would be on your own, possibly for a long time. What happened?”

Rodney shrugged. 

“The two guys with the practical experience didn't survive Year 1, and everyone else only had theoretical knowledge. Don't get me wrong, I love the biologists, the biochemists, the meteorologists. They pulled through, we wouldn't have made it without them, but all they knew was theory and it took time to build up the necessary experience– time during which our supplies kept shrinking. And as for the seeds... Since a lot of the soil types we know have been found in similar form all over the Milky Way, we assumed it was either a characteristic of Earth-type planets or a result of the Ancients' terra-forming habits. We still don't know about the Ancients, but it's not an Earth-type thing, it's a galaxy thing. There's a few crucial elements present in most soils in Pegasus–” Most of all those high levels of naquadah that had drawn the Ancients there in the first place, but Carter and the Earthlings didn't need to know that, “–and if they don't kill the plants before they even flower, they turn any harvest poisonous. Our seeds were useless.”

“Oh God... What did you do?”

Rodney shrugged. “Switch to native plants. Experiment. Trade for seeds. Be very, very nice to our Athosian friends and take everything they said very seriously. Learn to hunt.” 

“That...” She shook her head, “I can't even imagine what it must've been like...” There was something like pity in her voice. 

Rodney pressed his lips together and shrugged again. “It's Pegasus. You deal with it or you die.”

“McKay... _why_ do you want to go back there? Why don't you want to come home?”

He opened his mouth, realized he had no idea what to say, and closed it again. 

“Lantis is home,” he finally said. It was pathetic that a genius like him couldn't come up with a better way to answer, but... How could he find words to describe the sheer beauty of a morning in Lantis, windows and towers and endless waves glistening in the sun? How could he describe the pure awe of flying a puddle jumper out of a space gate past a gas giant, glowing an ethereal blue in the blackness of space? How could he describe the pride and wonder of seeing his six-year old daughter help her mother put together a hyperdrive, to see her grow up on a spaceship, as at home between cables and crystals and power conduits as other kids in their backyard? How could he describe the unending challenge of Ancient tech, of Wraith tech, pushing the limits of his intelligence every day, trying to understand physics that was in every sense light years from what humanity had discovered in their puny two thousand years? How could he put into words the acceptance, the appreciation he found in Pegasus, the respect, the friendships, the self-worth, the sense of loyalty and belonging? 

“It's home,” he repeated. She didn't understand, he saw it in her face, couldn't understand. No one on Earth could, that much had become clear in the last couple of weeks. 

Ronon bounded up the side of the steps to come to stand next to Rodney. 

“They were here,” he confirmed at Rodney's questioning look. “About a day ago. They landed the ship over there--” he gestured to a spot about 10 or 15 metres in front of the gate, “–and I'd estimate seven people left the ship. They were met here by another five or so, moved around a bit, and then one group left through the gate, the other took the ship. Sheppard was with them. No one was killed here, but I found this.” He handed Rodney a small, stained chip. “There was some blood in the grass around it, but not much.”

Rodney studied the small bit of circuitry on his palm, then held it out to Carter.

“Mitchell's subcutaneous transmitter?”

She looked at it, then nodded. 

“So, what did he say?” she wanted to know, and Rodney summed it up for her, then turned to Ronon. 

“So, does this mean we can finally get off the steps before some incoming wormhole cuts us in half?”

Ronon grinned. “Sure.”

Rodney glared at him, and marched down the steps to stand at a reasonable distance. Carter and the marines followed suit, and after conferring with her for a moment, the marines moved to spread out and secure the perimeter.

He looked around, trying to spot what Ronon had, what proof there was that Sheppard was alive, or had been when the kidnappers had met their allies here. 

“So, why'd you say Sheppard was here?” he asked when he failed to find anything. 

Ronon raised an eyebrow at him, then crouched at a spot in the trampled grass and waved him over. 

“There.” He pointed at a sliver of a boot print, just an inch of the outer edge of the tread preserved in the moist earth between two bushels of grass. “Standard Confederation tread, must've been Sheppard.”

Rodney knew it was foolish, knew that a lot of unpleasant things, including death, could have happened to Sheppard in the thirty or so hours since that print had been left there, but he still felt considerably more optimistic about seeing John again.

He stood from his own crouch, surveyed the scene.

“Okay,” he said, his voice loud in the quiet evening air. “So they met up with another group here, and took Sheppard and the Colonel through the gate, right? That's what we're assuming?” He didn't wait for a reply. “Then let's pull the crystal and start searching for the right address!”

Carter joined him at the DHD, and together, they uncovered the crystal and attached it to Rodney's tablet to download whatever addresses were still preserved in the crystal matrix. 

“It will take us a while to go through all these addresses, you know that, right, McKay?” she said quietly, and he scowled hat her.

“Yes, I do know that. The sooner we start, the sooner we'll find them.”

“We'll need additional equipment if we're going to set up camp here. It's getting dark. Maybe we should come back tomorrow?” 

He gave her the most withering glare he could muster, the one he usually reserved for brain-damaged Genii scientists or officious bureaucrat brats John had the bad taste to fuck. 

“And I assume you know how long the day/night cycle on this planet is? Whether we'll have to wait ten hours, or twenty, or thirty, or whatever until it's 'tomorrow'? Quite apart from the fact that I'm not willing to waste even one hour, a little darkness doesn't scare me. Go home, or get whatever equipment you like, I'm staying here until I've found out what happened to Sheppard.”

“Okay, okay. Once you've finished downloading the data, I'll dial Earth and have them send us a few more people and a couple of tents, some lights... something to eat.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever...”

Rodney waited until his download was finished, and then left Carter to do whatever she felt the need to do, while he scrolled through the data, checked to see whether any addresses were regularly being dialled from here. Maybe these Lucian Alliance people did this sort of thing all the time, and always used the same planets... Which would be dumb, but one thing was never in low supply, and that was human stupidity. A man could hope.

***


	11. Chapter 11

Trees, trees and more trees, trees uphill and trees downhill, trees in grey daylight and invisible black trees in the black night and faint outlines of trees in the moonlight.

***

Shaking knees and heavy feet and trembling fingers and raw, cracking lips. Sandpaper throat and rattling lungs and hunger an acidic pain in his stomach, thirst a dull fire in his blood.

***

Ducking against tree trunks and hunching his shoulders uselessly as death gliders roar by overhead, send the light wavering, silvery leaves raining down all around.

***

Sheppard's fever-warm body in his arms, heavy and limp and unconscious in sleep.

***

Rain rushing into the leaves overhead, tilting his head up to try and catch the sparse dribble that comes through, sucking on his damp shirt sleeve after the downpour is over.

***

Shivering in the cool, wet night, pressed against Sheppard for a little warmth, exhaustion dragging him into sleep even as the cold wind seems to blow straight through to his bones.

***

Walking, always walking, barely able to concentrate enough to put one foot in front of the other while he knows that they're getting slower and slower, stopping for more and more breaks.

***

The pin in his leg a grinding, spiking, unrelenting ache.

***

A hillside that might as well be the Himalaya, because he is sure, sure that he can not climb up there, not again, not another. He climbs anyway. He climbs the next one, too.

***

Vague, half-dreaming wishful thoughts of warm beds and hot food and cool liquid and _not moving_. He can't really remember what all of that is like at the moment, but he knows it's wonderful.

***

Tripping over roots on clumsy feet, dragging himself upwards with hands in the earth, sliding down in a cascade of slick leaves more on his ass than his feet, almost twisting his ankle.

***

Everything aches, or hurts, or burns. Sheppard is still walking.

***

Cam reached the crown of another hill, and for a few moments, just looked out at the valley below without comprehension. He was aware that they hadn't really been able to get a good look at anything than the next forested hillside for a long time, nothing like the view opening out, the green sweep of grass, the flanks of the hills encircling the valley. It took him a second look, or maybe a third, to notice the grey metal ring in the centre of the grass.

Disbelief jerked him out of the daze he was in and he dug his fingers into the material of Sheppard's shirt over his shoulder. Was he hallucinating?

“'Re you seein' what I'm seein'?” he croaked, his eyes still fixed on the object below. He could see Sheppard's dark head move to look at him in his peripheral vision.

“The gate.”

“Yeah. The gate.”

It was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen in his life, he was sure. It was freedom, it was... he didn't know what else it was, but it was wonderful. 

There were Jaffa guarding it. Four of them, two at the top step, two others flanking out to the side, covering the valley. 

Sheppard suddenly slumped out from under his hand, and Cam was more or less dragged down with him when he didn't let go of the other man's shirt quite quickly enough. 

Cam found himself crouching on the floor next to Sheppard, studying him with worry. 

Sheppard was leaning back against the tree he'd been standing next to, just barely sitting up, legs sprawled straight out in exhaustion. He was deathly pale, a faint sheen of sweat across his forehead, two spots of red high on his cheeks the only colour in his face. His eyes were glazed and half-closed, his chest rising and falling with the fast, shallow breaths that passed his cracked lips. Cam reached out a hand to feel Sheppard's forehead, and, yeah, as he'd feared, under the clammy sweat the man was burning up with fever. He cast a quick look down at his chest and saw that the area around the wound there was deep red and swollen, obviously raging with infection. Sheppard's wrists didn't look too good, either. 

“Sheppard!” He gripped a shoulder and gave him a gentle shake. “Sheppard! Hey, man, c'mon, don't pass out on me now!”

Sheppard swung his head around ponderously to give him a shadow of a wry smirk.

“'M done. 'll just slow you down now. Go on. Get outta here.”

“What?!” Outrage actually managed to bring Cam somewhat back to himself, drag up a last bit of energy and determination. “I'm not leaving you here!”

“'S the sensible thing to do. I'm done, I can't move another step. You go an' send a couple guys back for me.”

“No! Dammit, I'm not leaving you here! I can't take these Jaffa down there alone! And even if I could, even if I made it through the gate, they'd start searching the area, they'd find you! I don't think they expect us here, there'd be more guards if they did, but if I show up, they'd come looking for you! I'm not letting them capture you again! And I couldn't send help 'cause I don't know where 'here' is,” he added, just then realizing that flaw in Sheppard's genius plan. 

“No,” he continued, crouching in front of him so he could give Sheppard some serious eye-contact and grip both his shoulders. “I'm not leaving without you. I wouldn't have made it here on my own. I'd still be wandering through that damn forest, lost beyond belief, probably going in circles! We made it this far together, we're gonna get through that gate down there together.”

Yes, Cam wasn't completely incompetent in a forest, he'd spend his share of time in them, but Sheppard's wilderness skills were way beyond his, and without a compass, in these terribly uniform woods, under that apparently perpetually overcast sky, and without all his wits about... chances were he would have gotten hopelessly lost. Never would he have been able to lead them to the gate like Sheppard had, in what he suspected was the straightest and truest path possible.

Sheppard rested his head back against the tree with a sigh. “Okay,” he said to the sky. “Since you insist... how'd you suggest we get through the gate?”

Cam gave up his crouch in favour of sitting cross-legged on the forest floor, shoving one of Sheppard's unresisting legs aside so he had room to sit between them, a black boot on either side of his knees. 

“Well, first of all, we can't just dial Earth. My codes will be locked out by now. So, I'd suggest... Chulak. Teal'c's supposed to be there, but chances are, even if he's back on Earth, either Bra'tac or Rya'c'll still be there. They have IDCs to call Earth and get us home. As for the Jaffa down there... I say, come up from two sides under cover of the trees, shoot them, dial, get the hell outta here.”

“They were guarding the approach from the river valley,” Sheppard said thoughtfully. “I agree, we have to take them from two sides, fast, but I'd suggest we come up from the back of the gate. One of us has to circle the valley anyway, so we should take advantage of that. Shoot the guards on the steps from the back, through the gate, then take the two on the flanks out.”

Cam considered, then nodded. “Sounds like a plan. Not the best plan I've ever heard, mind, but... it might just work. Now, listen, if I don't make it, ask for either Teal'c, Bra'tac or Rya'c, and tell them you're a friend of mine. They're good guys, I'm sure they'll ask Earth about you before they do anything... rash. Also, this is the address.”

He brushed some leaves away and drew out the gate address as best he could while Sheppard watched attentively. 

“You got it?”

“Yeah. If _I_ don't make it...” Another faint, wry smirk curled Sheppard's lips. “Stay as far away from Rodney as you possibly can.”

Cam felt his eyebrows rise. “McKay?”

Sheppard nodded. “Yeah. For some reason, he's decided to not like you, so he'll probably decide to blame you. And he can get... creative. So, stay away from him, make sure to change all your passwords into different 27-digit random number and letter combinations and erase any sort of embarrassing footage that exists in electronically accessible form.”

“O-kay...”

Sheppard chuckled slightly. “Oh, and since we're about to go on a suicide run together, you can call me John if you want.”

Cam grinned. “Sure thing... John. Call me Cam.”

Sheppard answered the grin, and then Cam levered himself to his feet. He offered the other man a hand up, then had to brace his feet apart as Sheppard's legs almost gave out on the way up. He quickly switched his grip, and dragged one of Sheppard's arms across his shoulder, steadied him with his other arm around his waist. For a moment, he thought Sheppard would pass out, but then the other man managed to get his feet under himself. However, Cam didn't let go of his hold of him as he steered them towards what he thought was a feasible path down into the valley. Sheppard seemed to be about to protest for a moment, but then he focused instead on doing as much of his walking himself as he could, for which Cam was immensely grateful.

***

Somehow, they managed to make it down to the last line of trees before the grassy valley floor without too much noise. The Jaffa guarding their side of the valley was looking in their direction, but he didn't seem inclined to come over and check it out. After they stayed quiet for a good long while, crouching in the cover of the underbrush, he turned his attention away again. The wind that was picking up, rushing through the tree tops, probably helped.

“Okay,” Cam whispered. “You stay here and get some rest. I'll make my way over to the other side.”

“You sure?” Sheppard visibly had trouble focusing. “I could...”

Cam shook his head. “No, you can't. Don't be an idiot. And I need you able to move and shoot, back me up, later, so get as much rest as you can. And don't pass out on me.”

Sheppard grinned wryly. “Yes, Sir,” he quipped. 

Truthfully, Cam didn't look forward to making his way around the valley. It wasn't all that large, under ordinary circumstances it'd only be about two hours of brisk walking... but the circumstances were far from ordinary, and there could be no mention of a brisk anything. He'd be glad if he made it all the way around without falling on his face and drawing the Jaffa down on him. Besides, the short day was already waning, shadows gathering. So they agreed that Cam would make his way around through the forest until the next morning, while Sheppard grabbed a couple of hours of sleep. Once Cam was in position, he would use the glass face of his watch to signal Sheppard, and then they'd attack. They didn't bother to even consider the million things that could go wrong with that plan. It would work, or it wouldn't.

***

There was a rare bit of sunshine when Cam made it to the other side of the Stargate the next morning. Dew glistened in the grass and on the leaves. The Jaffa guarding the gate were different ones, but it was still only four, and they were still arrayed the same way, focused on the opening between the hills where the mouth of the river valley was which led back to the camp. Cam took a few minutes to catch his breath, to gather his last reserves of strength to rush the guards. He'd gotten some rest during the dark part of the night, before the moons rose, but he hadn't really slept, too cold, uncomfortable and freaked out by being all alone in the darkness, without anyone to keep watch over his unconscious body.

But now he was in position, and if they could kill these Jaffa... they could go home. If they could kill the Jaffa- before reinforcements arrived. If the Jaffa didn't kill them first. If Sheppard was even conscious, let alone able to move and shoot. 

Cam took a deep breath, and raised his watch to catch the morning sun, throw it over to where he thought Sheppard was.

Nothing.

He waited a few minutes, then flickered the glass of his watch through the sunshine again. 

Still nothing. 

He waited again, despair spreading cold tendrils through his limbs, because he couldn't, _couldn't_ do this alone... He tried again. 

For a moment, everything stayed just the same... then a red blast of energy shot out of the under brush on the other side, farther back than Cam had expected, and hammered one of the Jaffa on the steps in the back, send him head first off the pedestal, arms flailing wide, staff lance tumbling away. Cam wasted no time and got moving, shooting at his assigned Jaffa, who was swinging around face the place his colleague had just stood. His first shot went wide, but the second connected, sending the man crumbling, rolling down the steps. Cam was running, ignoring the protest of his legs and lungs, and desperately shot at the other Jaffa. Sheppard came bursting out of the undergrowth, rolling, catching his guy in the leg while Cam ducked a staff-blast from his own target. 

Things were very chaotic for a few short minutes, red and yellow energy blasts criss-crossing in the early morning air, sending leaves and grass and earth flying. Then Sheppard had somehow made it to the back of the gate, taken cover behind it, and dispatched the wounded Jaffa. Cam vaguely registered the man leaping through the gate, making a run for the DHD as Cam tried to bring down the last Jaffa without catching a staff-blast to the face. 

He finally got a lucky shot in just as the wormhole engaged. His heart was hammering like it was about to give out as he ran across the grass. Shouts rose from the direction of the river valley as a whole group of Jaffa rounded a bend, probably attracted by the commotion. Sheppard half-ducked, half-fell behind the DHD as a shot came his way. Cam tossed any remaining caution to the wind, dashed over there firing randomly, and grabbed the back of the other man's shirt. 

“Come on!” he yelled, more out of reflex, because Sheppard was already pushing off, firing with one hand and using the DHD as leverage with the other, and then they weaved and stumbled their way across the grass, up the steps and through the gate, staff-blasts and blue zat beams hot on their heels.

***

“Unscheduled off-world activation!” Walter yelled as the alarm sounded. Sam saw McKay look up from his tablet sharply, annoyed frown in place as he stepped back from the ramp to let the marines take their positions, guns pointed while the iris closed.

McKay wasn't best pleased with the speed with which “Operation Rescue Sheppard (oh, fine, yes, and Mitchell, too)” proceeded. But Landry had told him in no uncertain terms that he would not leave regular gate teams stranded while McKay searched for Sheppard, so they had to work in between the normal check-in calls and teams returning from off-world missions. At least, only the most necessary of new teams were still disembarking, though that had, Sam was sure, as much to do with the wish to assess the threat of the Lucian Alliance before letting more people out of their sight as it had with diplomatic relations with the Atlantians. 

McKay, after disentangling the data he retrieved from the crystal and making sure that he'd gotten everything he needed from it, had come up with the idea to use the Cyrinius' sensors to good effect, and scan for Sheppard's beacon through an active gate. To the question whether they could have removed Sheppard's beacon as they had Cam's, he'd just answered with a terse “No.” Sam hoped he was right, but, as he'd pointed out, if they didn't get a hit off the beacon, they could still start sending MALPs, UAVs and/or search teams to the addresses in the crystal. 

So they had all trooped back to the SGC about eight hours after they had stepped on X34-779, as it had been designated, and had been hard at work dialling and scanning ever since. McKay was down in the gate room with his tablet, some form of a radio hooked around his left ear into which he was frequently yelling in Ancient, Sam assumed to direct the people manning the sensors up on the ship. He hadn't slept, as far as Sam was aware, since Sheppard had vanished some seventy hours earlier, and only ate whenever Dex showed up to hand him some form of rations, brown bars about the length of a finger and maybe half as wide. Other than that, he seemed to run on coffee and his alien cigarette alone, just as he had only the week before, when the Wraith were approaching. His temper, if possible, was even worse. 

“It's Bra'tac, Sir,” Walter informed General Landry as he stepped into the control room. 

“On the screen, Walter.”

Bra'tac's face, lean and lined with age but eyes still as sharp as ever, appeared on one of their screens. “General, Colonel Carter,” he greeted. Sam had to smile despite the constant, low thrum of worry chewing at her gut. It had been a while since she'd last seen him. 

“Bra'tac.” Landry nodded at the old Jaffa. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”

“Colonel Mitchell has asked me to call you and request that you lower your iris so that he and his friend may return through the Chappa'ai.”

“What?” Landry bellowed. “You've got Mitchell?!”

A faint smile crossed Bra'tac's face. “Yes, General, we do indeed. The Colonel and John Sheppard came through our Chapa'ai a short while ago. They are alive, but require medical assistance and would like to return home as soon as possible.”

General Landry hesitated for a moment, obviously weighing the possibilities that they could be compromised against the wish to have their people back safe and sound. It didn't take him long to nod decidedly and grab for the microphone.

“Medical team to the gateroom, medical team to the gateroom, please. Stand back, everyone, Colonel Mitchell and Commander Sheppard will be with us in just a moment. Walter, open the iris.”

Sam saw McKay look up to them sharply, eyes widening, then he turned to the emerging event horizon. 

“Send them on through, Bra'tac. And... thank you.”

“You are welcome, General. Colonel Carter.” Bra'tac nodded at them, then terminated the transmission. 

Cam appeared on top of the ramp, stepping through the gate, just a moment later. He had one of Sheppard's arms slung over his shoulders, the other arm around the man's waist, half-carrying him as they staggered a few steps down the ramp. They were a sight to behold.

They were still in the same clothes they had been in when they'd left the party, only much worse for wear. Cam's dress uniform was rumpled, stains all over his white shirt and blue pants, rips and tears ruining his clothes beyond any hope for repair. His jacket was draped over Sheppard's shoulders, who seemed to have lost his own jacket and whose shirt was hanging open down the front. Stubble was shading Cam's jaw, and he looked drawn and exhausted, bruise-like shadows lying under his eyes. If Sam wasn't very much mistaken, there were bits of leaves and twigs caught in his hair. Other than that, however, he seemed thankfully unharmed. 

The same couldn't be said for Sheppard. There were rusty-brown smears and speckles on his shirt and his bare chest, and he seemed barely able to stand, slumped as he was into Cam's grip, feet unsteady on the floor, head hanging so all she could see was a mess of dirty hair and a sliver of jawline thickly covered with black stubble. McKay was the first one up the ramp.

***

“John?! John!”

Cam saw Sheppard raise his head slightly at the anxious shout and give one of his wry little smirks. “'ey Rodney,” he croaked, and promptly passed out. Cam, on instinct, let him go, let his body slide into McKay's clumsy arms. McKay looked panicked for a moment, hands clutching at shirt and gun belt. Then Dex stepped up, swept Sheppard's limp body into his arms as if he weighted no more than a child, and cast a questioning look around. 

“Infirmary?” he rumbled, and McKay visibly pulled himself together and set off at a fast trot out of the gate room, Dex following with long, easy strides. 

Cam watched them go for a long moment, then the floor suddenly rushed up and he found himself sitting down, hard. He blinked. There were people rushing around, anxious faces talking to him.

“Cam? Cam, are you okay?” He stared at Sam for a long moment as he tried to remember what he was supposed to say to that question, but then there were other people, with a stretcher, and they tugged at him to get him to lie down on it, and lying down sounded really, _really_ good, so he complied. He was lifted up and carried away from the gate room, following the route Dex had taken, and Sam was talking to him again, but it was all just so much meaningless noise. He fell asleep long before they reached the infirmary.

***

“Well?” McKay demanded as soon as Dr. Lam stepped out into the corridor outside the infirmary, where she'd summarily ordered all of them to wait while she finished her examinations. They were a rather disparate group, General Landry, Sam, Daniel, Teal'c as well as McKay and Dex. Certainly, they could hardly deny the Atlantian's right to be here, but Sam had to admit that McKay's pacing had been about to drive her crazy.

Caroline raised one slim eyebrow at McKay's tone, but he merely crossed his arms and glared. 

“They both show signs of extreme exhaustion. They've lost weight, they're dangerously dehydrated, and I'm reasonably sure they haven't eaten anything since before they were taken. Colonel Mitchell also has a cut on his arm where his subcutaneous transmitter was removed, numerous scratches and a few bruises, as well as open sores on his feet, but as long as he stays infection-free, he'll be fine in a few days. All he really needs is plenty of sleep and food. 

Commander Sheppard, on the other hand...” She flipped a page on her clipboard and frowned at it's contents. “He has bruises over much of his back and torso, though they appear to be a few days old. We've scanned him for internal damage, but apart from very slight bruising to his lungs and kidneys he's fine in that regard. He also has some form of electrical burns on his neck and shoulders. The thing that worries me, however, is the wound on his chest. From what I can tell–” she grimaced slightly, “–small pieces of skin were removed with a large, straight blade, probably a knife.”

“He was _skinned_?” McKay shouted, hand dropping to his empty holster like it wanted to rest on his gun, Sam noticed. 

“Yes, Doctor McKay,” Caroline answered, coolly, professionally, only the downturn at the corners of her mouth betraying her distaste. “The affected area isn't too large, however, so if he wishes to have the scars removed at some point in the future, that will be quite possible. Right now, I'm more worried about the infection that's set in. He's running a high fever that's exacerbating the exhaustion and dehydration. He also has some cuts and abrasions on his wrists that are consistent with being tied with some form of strap or cord, and these are also infected, though not as bad as the chest wound. I've put him on broad spectrum antibiotics for the time being, as well as painkillers and, of course, nutrients, and the lab is analysing his blood as we speak. Hopefully, whatever alien bacteria he's contracted are going to prove vulnerable to some of our antibiotics. As long as we can get a handle on the infection and the fever, Commander Sheppard should make a full recovery in a matter of weeks.”

Sam could see some of the tension leave McKay, and she herself felt a wave of relief at hearing that. 

Of course, that meant any further talks with the Atlantians were postponed until Sheppard was back on his feet and able to take part, and from the way McKay planted himself in a chair at his bedside, Sam didn't think he looked likely to move from that spot any time in the near future. She herself checked in on Cam with Daniel and Teal'c, found him still deeply asleep and hooked up to an IV, and decided to go home and have a shower, a hot meal, and a good night's sleep now that she knew he was safe for the moment. Daniel muttered something about going and catching Vala before she spent all that money, and Teal'c pulled up a chair to mirror McKay and keep watch over their comrade. Dex, McKay explained, would head up to the Cyrinius and inform the other Atlantians of the state of their Commander. And while they still didn't know what exactly had happened, and wouldn't until Mitchell woke up, Sam felt cautiously optimistic that the crisis was over, and maybe, this time, they would get a few quiet days before the next one came around.

***


	12. Chapter 12

Warmth. That was the first thing Cam registered. He was warm, cosily, comfortably warm. And softness-- there was softness all around him, cradling his heavy, tired body. He relaxed, and basked for a few moments, just enjoyed this singular moment in time, when he was warm and comfortable, when he wasn't hurting and didn't have to move. Then, with a soft sigh of regret, he opened his eyes to take stock of the actual situation. 

The first thing he laid eyes on was a uniform grey concrete ceiling. Lime green privacy curtains and the long tubes of neon lights hung from steel rods fixed to the ceiling. In all its ugliness, it was one of the most welcome sights Cam had ever seen: the Infirmary. The lighting was low and the room around him quiet, a hushed silence that suggested it was the middle of the night. He turned his head, to see a stand with a bag of clear fluid to his left, connected to a needle taped down on the back of his hand with a thin plastic tube, and Sam sitting in a chair next to his bed, slumped over, short blond hair in disarray, apparently asleep. 

“Hey,” he said quietly. 

Her head jerked up, and she blinked twice in confusion when she looked at him. Then she beamed.

“Cam! You're awake!” She spoke quietly, even though she obviously wanted to shout the words. She leaned back to stick her head out of the curtains that were drawn around the bed. “Caroline! He's awake!”

Light steps moved over, and then Caroline smiled at him as she folded the curtains back around the foot of the bed.

“Hey there, Cam. How are you feeling?”

Cam took a moment to consider that question seriously, to probe beyond the sense of warmth and relief and not-moving.

“Thirsty,” he concluded. “And still kinda tired. And hungry.” He tilted his head as Caroline stepped up to the bed, Sam scooting out of the way. “How am I doing, doc?”

“You should be fine,” she assured him as she started checking him over, testing his pupil reflexes and taking his blood pressure, his pulse, his temperature. “I'll leave the IV in over night to make sure you're properly rehydrated, and I want you to rest for at least another day, and take it slow for the next week.” She gave him a stern look, and he tried his best to look like a harmless, obedient patient. Not that that fooled her. “The cut on your arm seems clean, and as long as those sores on your feet stay infection-free, I don't think there's anything to worry about. All you need is plenty of food and rest.”

Cam sighed in relief and gave Sam a crooked smile around the fever thermometer. 

“Never get kidnapped in dress shoes,” he drawled ruefully, eliciting a chuckle from her. Now that he was safely at home, it was kind of funny. Not that it had been any fun when he'd had to walk like that, when every step rubbed unforgiving leather against sore skin. Speaking of things that had not been fun...

“How's Sheppard?”

Caroline frowned down at her clipboard as she jotted down on Cam's form whatever doctors did. 

“Much worse than you, I'm afraid. The wound on his chest is infected, not that it's not enough trauma on its own already. He seems to be responding well enough to the broad-spectrum antibiotics we have him on for now, while the labs are analysing the samples and try to find what they respond best to. It'll take until tomorrow noon at least before we get results back on that front. He's stable, but the fever and the exhaustion symptoms are aggravating each other. So, as long as he doesn't get worse tonight, he'll probably recover, but it'll take some time.”

Cam breathed a sigh of relief. Despite Caroline's cautious words, he felt the worry lift from his mind. From everything he had seen the last few days, Sheppard struck him as one tough son of a bitch. If given half a chance he'd pull through, Cam was sure, if only with pure bloody-mindedness. 

“Cam,” Sam said softly, scooting closer again as Caroline finished poking and prodding at him, “what happened?”

Cam blinked, and maybe Caroline read in his expression how the mere thought of putting the last few days into words already made a wave of exhaustion wash over him. She frowned at Sam.

“Not now, Sam. We all want to know, but he needs more rest. Unless the fate of the world hangs in the balance, let's save the questions for tomorrow, okay?”

“Right, right.” She gave him an apologetic smile. “Sorry, Cam.”

He chuckled weakly. “'S okay. You'll hear all about it tomorrow.” He frowned. “Hey, how long was I out for, anyways?”

“You've been asleep about twelve hours,” Caroline supplied. “You returned around two in the afternoon, and now it's–” She checked her watch, “–one forty-five a.m.”

Cam digested this. In the hushed, somehow surreal quiet of the infirmary at night, the last few days felt very far away and like they had happened a second ago at the same time. 'Home' wrapped around him, dividing him from the forest, the pain, the hunger and thirst, and at the same time, underneath all the exhaustion, there was a gnawing sense of apprehension, a wariness, a sense that he wasn't quite safe. True, they had been attacked on their home turf plenty of times, they had had death and disease in the base itself before, but the last such incident had been years ago, before the fall of the Ori, and there was something about the ease with which he had gone from one of the safest places on this planet to torture and helplessness and bare survival that had rattled him on a very deep level. 

“Now,” Caroline's business-like tones broke him out of his thoughts, “how about we get you something to eat? Do you feel up to some soup?”

“Soup? How about something more substantial?” he asked hopefully. Caroline gave him one of her prim doctor-looks.

“We'll start with soup and see how your stomach handles that. Besides, I want to get as much water and electrolytes as possible into your system.”

“Fine,” he conceded. “Soup, then. And can you get me something to drink?” While the thirst wasn't the burning torture it had been, he still had a very strong desire for a glass of water.

“Oh, here, wait,” Sam said, and turned to the night stand where he saw a pitcher of water and a glass when he craned his head back. 

“Drink slowly, though,” Caroline advised as she adjusted his bed and arranged his pillow so he was sitting up. 

He accepted the glass, full of cool, beautiful fluid, gratefully, and resisted the urge to gulp it all down in one go. Instead he sipped, and after about half of it was gone, he was grateful for it, as it seemed to settle rather heavily in his stomach. Apparently Caroline was right, and he had to take the whole food thing slowly despite his body's demands.

Caroline sent a nurse for the soup, and it tasted like the best thing he'd ever had even though he knew rationally that it was rather mediocre. He had barely finished eating when the exhaustion came back with a vengeance, and he was asleep again before Sam was finished lowering the head of his bed. The last thing he saw before his eyes slid shut and refused to open again was her indulgent smile.

***

When he woke up again, it was the middle of the day. True, there were no windows in the infirmary to let in daylight, but there was a bustle of nurses around, people chatting at normal volume, steps outside in the corridors, and the breakfast scents of coffee and waffles in the air. This time, Teal'c was the one to sit stoically beside his bed.

“Colonel Mitchell. I am pleased to see you well,” he intoned when Cam looked at him, inclining his head.

“Thanks, Teal'c. Is that breakfast I smell?”

“Indeed it is.”

Caroline came over, apparently still (or again) on duty, and to his disappointment forbade him from having any coffee. Or waffles. Something about no stimulants to interfere with his system at this time, least of all diuretic stimulants. Instead, he had to make do with another bowl of soup and orange juice. 

The privacy curtains were drawn back to the walls now, and he could see Sheppard two beds over, pale and still, eyes closed. Someone had shaved off the stubble from his face, and Cam could see the red flush of fever over his cheekbones. While Caroline had removed Cam's IV after she'd checked him over, Sheppard was still hooked up to three different bags of clear fluid. McKay was seated next to the bed, back to the wall, typing away at his tablet, blue metal cylinder between his lips, though it wasn't lit. Caroline had probably forbidden him to smoke in her infirmary. McKay looked possibly worse than Sheppard did. His short hair was standing up in all directions, there was stubble on his chin and the circles under his eyes were the same bruise-black as Sheppard's. Together with his fierce frown and the black leather uniform, he looked almost intimidating. He certainly looked bad-tempered, and Cam looked away before the scientist caught him looking. 

Cam managed to make it to the bathroom and through a short shower on his own, and it felt beyond good to wash away the sweat and grime of the forest. Someone had cleaned him up before they'd stuffed him into the hospital pyjamas he was wearing, but it wasn't the same as feeling the water sluice over his skin and take the dirt away with it. Clad in a t-shirt and BDU pants, he felt a lot more like himself again, and as prepared as he was ever going to be for the short briefing General Landry had cleared with Caroline in the afternoon.

***

McKay and Dex were also in attendance at the meeting, and it took Cam only a few minutes to notice the strain between them and the SGC personnel. Relations had always been a bit rocky ever since Sheppard and his people had shown up again, but Cam had been under the impression that things, while still carefully neutral, were getting on firmer grounds after Elizabeth Weir's declaration of independence. Had something happened while he and Sheppard were gone? He realized he hadn't really given it a thought how the Atlantians would react to Sheppard's abduction, since he had been a bit busy being an abductee.

However, no one seemed to be willing to brief Cam on what was going on, as they were all looking at him to tell them what had happened to him and Sheppard.

It was one of the most difficult briefings of his life. Yes, he'd had to write reports about failed missions before, had to give briefings about being kidnapped, being tortured, but still... talking about it meant he had to remember it, had to remember Sheppard's screams and his powerlessness to stop it, had to remember the look on the other man's face when he ordered Cam not to say anything, no matter what, had to remember the cold and the forest and the interminable walk while his body grew weaker and weaker. As usual, it only hit him afterwards how bad their situation had been. He'd been too busy surviving while he was in the middle of it, but now that he had time to think about it... he found he rather wouldn't. 

But he had to tell the story, and so he did, in words that were deceptively neutral, in a manner that was deceptively methodical. 

He laid out how they had suddenly been ringed aboard a cargo ship, how they had found themselves surrounded by Jaffa, and didn't neglect to mention how Sheppard had killed one of them despite the odds. He told them about Silak, and it turned out he wasn't the only one who'd never heard of the young man. He told them about the planet where they had found his transmitter and subsequently gated them to another planet, and learned that actually, McKay had managed to track them that far, and that he and Sam and the rest of the scientists had been working their magic on the gate crystal to find them. It was a relief to hear that even if they hadn't managed to escape, they might have been found. He wasn't sure how much good it would still have been, but it was reassuring to have proof, once again, that he could rely on the competence and motivation of his people to find ways even when the situation looked impossible.

He told them about the camp and the prison, and then he told them about the admittedly effective plan to torture Sheppard to get him to reveal the information about Earth's ship-building facilities. They must have surmised as much from Sheppard's injuries, but McKay's expression still darkened even further at this point, and Sam looked slightly sick. Generals Landry and O'Neill were less expressive, but Cam still got a distinctly unhappy vibe from them. 

“I'm sorry, Sir,” Cam found himself forced to admit to Landry, “but I eventually cracked and agreed to talk.”

Landry's eyebrows arced up in astonished disapproval. Cam grimaced. “They were skinning him alive, Sir, and they weren't going stop there. They'd already had him under one of those Goa'uld torture rods for, I don't know, five or six hours. I just... couldn't watch any more.” He didn't see a need to point out what _exactly_ had made him crack. It was just too... private, and he didn't want to expose Sheppard to the kind of scrutiny, and pity, and horror, it would engender, even if it hadn't _actually_ happened.

“You told them about our construction sites?” O'Neill asked sharply, but Cam shook his head.

“No, Sir. No matter how tired I was, of course I would've warned you immediately in that case. I only agreed to talk, and while they were distracted and focused on me, Sheppard somehow got loose. He incapacitated Neam, got hold of the gun, and shot the other guard.”

Cam felt a small shudder travel down his spine as he remembered the scene. The minute before it had happened, he would have sworn Sheppard was at the end of his endurance. Hell, he _should_ have been, after that much abuse, that much pain. Cam, and obviously Neam, too, didn't think Sheppard could so much as stand under his own power... until Sheppard moved, with grace and speed and deadly accuracy. Cam wouldn't soon forget how he'd stood above Neam, bruised and bloody and battered, how, for that single moment, he had simply watched as his tormentor writhed in the throes of a slow, painful death. Cam liked Sheppard, he really did, and he didn't have any charitable feelings to spare for Neam, but there was still something deeply unsettling about that moment. 

He shook the memory off, and continued to relate how they had escaped into the forest, and how they had seen no choice but to walk back to the gate.

“But... didn't you say you were flown to the camp from the gate?” Sam asked. “Wasn't it a long way from the camp?”

Cam nodded. “It was a short flight, but we estimated about 20 miles from gate to camp, air-line distance. So, about 50 miles through the forest. We couldn't follow the main track along the river valley since it was crawling with Jaffa patrols.”

“Let me get this straight,” O'Neill spoke up. “You walked through fifty or so miles of alien forest, with no supplies, no maps, no clue of where you actually were, all the way back to the gate?”

“Yes, Sir.” Cam gave the other man a thin smile. “In dress shoes, too.” O'Neill looked dismayed in sympathy. “Honestly, Sir, without Sheppard I never would've made it. I have no idea how he did it but he led us in what I believe was the straightest line possible right back to the gate. The nights were pitch-dark for a good part, the days overcast, but he didn't get turned around even once, didn't even hesitate as far as I'm aware. He just kept on walking.”

“And that's how you got back?” O'Neill asked. It was impossible to tell whether he was sceptical, or incredulous, or merely curious. 

“Yes, Sir,” Cam answered. “That's how we got back. Thankfully, the gate wasn't very heavily guarded, and we had both of Sheppard's guns. So we attacked from two sides, took out the four Jaffa guarding it, and dialled Chulak. We were in luck, Rya'c was with the Jaffa guarding their gate, so we didn't have to do much talking before they fetched Bra'tac to call you.” He shrugged. “You know the rest.”

“So, let me see if I get this right:” McKay spoke up, tone snide. “Not only did you manage to let our Commander be kidnapped on your watch, he was also tortured for _your_ information?”

“Now wait just a damn minute, McKay...!” O'Neill protested. 

“No, Sir, the doctor's right,” Cam interrupted and turned to McKay. “I'm really sorry that I couldn't stop them, but it would be very bad if the Lucian Alliance were to get the upper hand in this galaxy, and Sheppard himself actually expressly forbade me to talk.”

McKay snorted. “Of course he did. So, what is this Lucian Alliance and are they really that much of a threat?”

O'Neill pressed his lips together in a grim, colourless lines. “They aren't... yet.”

“They have been steadily gaining in power since the defeat of the Ori,” Landry added. “The only thing keeping them in check is the lack of ships. At the moment, Earth is the only power in this galaxy with the resources, the man power, the technology and the infrastructure to build new spaceships. Everyone else is using what the Goa'uld left when they fell, but ships get destroyed and they're not getting replaced, and by now, it's starting to tell. Ships are becoming a rare commodity. If the Alliance managed to destroy Earth's shipbuilding facilities, they'd catapult us straight back twenty years. They'd isolate us from a great part of the galaxy, limit us to the surfaces of those planets we can access by Stargate and cripple Earth's defences.”

“Okay, I get the picture.” McKay waved an impatient hand. “So, what is this Alliance all about?”

Cam shrugged. “Whatever turns a profit. Drugs, weapons, bounty hunting, if it's unsavory they've got their hands in it. Space mafia.”

McKay grimaced. “Yeah, I know the type.” He frowned darkly at them. “What I don't get is how you've allowed the problem to grow out of hand to the point where they fly around on Earth with impunity and kidnap people right off your doorstep.”

O'Neill gave McKay a nasty look. “They were in a _cloaked_ ship, doc! Y'know, the sort that is INVISIBLE?!”

McKay rolled his eyes. “Oh, please! Even a cloaked ship is traceable, it just takes a little more work, and you've had access to the relevant cloaking technology for _decades_ to study it and develop a counter measure! I'd think you were a little more concerned with making sure your airspace is clean.”

“Yeah, you'd _think_ ,” General O'Neill drawled. “But, you know, bureaucrats. Why fund more research when all the big threats are gone and you can waste time bickering about whether Area 51 really needs all that money?”

McKay raised his eyebrows. “Oh, well. I'm sure Sheppard's going to have something to say to them when he wakes up. And if _he_ doesn't, I certainly do.”

The meeting ran on for quite some time longer, McKay grilling O'Neill and Landry, with astonishing competence on anything and everything they knew about the Lucian Alliance... not that they knew that much about their current day to day operations. Truth be told, Cam, too, hadn't considered them that much of a threat until now. They had always been aware of them, tussled with their agents or affiliates occasionally on some exploration mission or other, but he'd never thought that Ventrell would be ambitious enough to go after Earth's ship-building facilities. Huh. It seemed a re-evaluation of their policy was in order. 

The meeting finally broke up when Cam couldn't stop yawning and had to let himself be herded back to the infirmary by O'Neill, since Caroline had made it quite clear that she wanted him back there as soon as the briefing was done with. 

O'Neill clapped him approvingly on the shoulder, spared Sheppard's prone form an unreadable look and then crisply strode out of the infirmary again while Cam sat on his bed to remove his boots, no doubt to sift through the information Cam had given with Landry, or maybe to tear some unsuspecting IOA official a new one. 

Cam didn't think he could sleep _again_ , not after he had spent most of the past twenty-four hours asleep, but Caroline's stern look made it clear protest was futile, and so he was a good soldier and lay back down on his bed. Before he had any time to get bored, he was asleep.

***

Sheppard was out of it for three days. By then, Cam was already back on his feet, dismissed from Caroline's care apart from twice-daily check-ups. It made Cam feel rather guilty, even though he knew Sheppard's condition wasn't really his fault.

Still. The man had gotten involved in Milky Way politics, and that's what had landed him in the infirmary. So Cam kept checking in on him several times a day, whenever he wasn't stuck in meetings to deal with the escalating uproar of the Stargate Programme's going public. Even McKay's nasty looks couldn't deter him from spending a few minutes of free time at Sheppard's bed side with a book whenever he had them. As for McKay, he had made it quite clear that he was not going to leave his post until Sheppard was at the very least conscious again. Other Atlantian personnel came by every now and then, Dex being the most frequent visitor, but McKay simply stayed, until Caroline, with a sigh, told him to at least get some sleep and shooed him onto an infirmary bed right across the aisle from Sheppard's, and Sam took it upon herself to drop by with a tray of food for the man occasionally. Apparently, she had forgiven him about the hostage-incident, about which Cam had eventually heard. He didn't quite know what to make of that, but it explained the tense, wary atmosphere he had noticed between the SGC and any Atlantian representatives that attended some of the meetings. 

After the first day, Caroline had proclaimed Sheppard to be over the worst of it, and since then, the Atlantians, excluding McKay, of course, had gone back to their previous guarded but friendly behaviour, as if there had never been any guns drawn. Commander Stackhouse seemed to have been elected spokesperson in Sheppard's and McKay's absence, and he was less stand-offish than Sheppard, even though Cam noticed quickly that he wasn't any more willing to share in-depth information. Stargate Command, on the other hand, especially General O'Neill, was far more restrained in their behaviour than they had been. Cam suspected that things would have gotten real nasty real quick if either he or Sheppard hadn't made it back. 

He had to admit, he was disturbed as well by the Atlantian's reaction. But then, he only had to remember Sheppard's torture and put that together with McKay's dogged watch at his bed side, with Dr Weir's warning words at the declaration of Atlantis' independence, with the burn scars on Stackhouse's face, with the number of survivors, to get a picture of fierce loyalty in the face of great adversity. Ten years in exile, he realized, had left their marks, and to a certain extend, the expedition _had_ gone feral. They had not degraded into total barbarity, in truth, it was astonishing how much discipline it must have taken for them to become as organised as they were, but they were quick to expect the worst and equally quick to react violently. Once he'd understood that, Cam suddenly found himself mediating, smoothing ruffled feathers where he could, subtly lobbying for understanding from his own COs towards the expedition. He didn't know how successful he was, but since he'd spent three days in Sheppard's close proximity, he was able to point to his own experience as evidence of the Atlantian's fundamental good will. How ever much it was due to his own efforts, no major disagreement ensued between the Atlantians and the SGC while Sheppard was sleeping– which was just as well, since they were drowning in requests for interviews, for television appearances, for information and explanations, from the entire planet.

Declassification had always been a possibility, there had always been contingency plans in place, but almost ten years of mostly peaceful, mostly routine missions had somehow made them forget just how huge the news would be. At least, Cam found it hard to wrap his head around it, found it hard to really empathise with the average citizen's position, because gate travel, spaceships, aliens, Ancients and all the rest was just so damn _normal_. Of course, the rest of the world didn't agree.

***


	13. Chapter 13

The fourth day, he walked into the infirmary to find Sheppard sitting up in bed, awake and arguing with Caroline.

“No, really, I'm _fine_!” he was telling her.   
“You're far from fine, Commander,” she answered, and from the exasperated tone, this conversation had been going on for a little while. “You've lost twenty pounds in the past week, you've just come down off a dangerously high fever, and the only reason you're feeling as well as you are is the considerable amount of painkillers in your system. As your attending doctor, I'm ordering at least another week of bed rest.”  
Sheppard groaned. 

“A _week_? Seriously, I have things to do, I can't just lie in bed for a _week_!”

Caroline scowled, a scowl that would have Cam hastily agreeing with whatever she said. “You can and you will, Commander. I don't care how important you are, in here you're my patient, and you'll leave when I decide that you're fit for duty again. Which, in case you were wondering, will be in a week, at the soonest. So settle down, or will I have to tie you to the bed?” 

Sheppard settled back with bad grace, crossing his arms across his chest. Then he winced and uncrossed them again. Caroline frowned disapprovingly, and McKay scowled darkly.

“You're hurt!” he exclaimed. “So fucking stop the macho bullshit and do what the lady says! Or do you want me to go and get Biro? I can get her down here in less than an hour, and then we can see what _she_ has to say about this!”

“Okay, okay, _okay_!” Sheppard answered huffily. “I'm staying! See? Staying.”

Cam took the opportunity to approach and pull a chair up to Sheppard's bedside, greeting the man with a friendly nod and a commiserating grin. 

“John.”

Sheppard grinned back. “Cam. I see you've already escaped the Infirmary's clutches.”

Cam shrugged. “I got off a lot easier than you. Listen to McKay and the doctor. You've certainly earned a little downtime.”

Sheppard groaned. “Not you, too! I get bored, okay? And I have stuff to do!”

“Despite what you may think, we're perfectly capable of functioning without your illustrious presence,” McKay interjected acidly. “If we need any suicidal stunts with a jumper done, we'll let you know. The repairs on the Cyrinius are going fine, and I'll get you your computer, so stop fucking whining!”

Cam looked at McKay with some consternation, and saw Sheppard raise an eyebrow as well. 

“Okay, Rodney,” Sheppard drawled, “when was the last time you got a decent night's sleep?”

“Oh, I don't know, maybe before you decided to get yourself kidnapped, just for a change?!”

“I've been back for days!”

“ _Unconscious_! With fever!”

“Yeah, well, I'm _fine_! Go, go away, go to sleep, before you make someone cry again.”

McKay glared, then collected his tablet and started to make his way out from behind Sheppard's bed. 

“You,” he said once he'd rounded the foot end, pointing at Cam. “Make sure he stays put. Don't let him run off.”

Cam felt his eyebrows lift doubtfully, since he didn't really think Sheppard was in any condition to run anywhere, but he nodded. McKay turned to Sheppard.

“I'll be back,” he announced, and if that was meant to be reassuring, he failed. It sounded more like a dire threat, especially since he whirled around and made to stalk out of the infirmary.

“Don't forget my computer!” Sheppard called at McKay's retreating back. “And bring me some clothes!”

McKay gave Sheppard the finger without turning around and vanished out the door. Cam blinked, first at the empty doorway, then at Sheppard. The other man chuckled when he saw his expression.

“Oh, don't mind him. He's just being... McKay.”

“If you say so. I'm just glad he's your problem, not mine.”

Sheppard grinned, and silence settled between them for a few moments. Then Cam looked around to make sure they were on their own in this little corner of the infirmary, Caroline having walked off after McKay to tend to a few other patients at the other end of the room. 

“I haven't told anyone, by the way,” he said quietly. “About what Neam almost did.”

Sheppard cocked his head, watched him with an inscrutable expression, and Cam shrugged, somewhat uncomfortable. 

“It's... I mean, it's kind of private, and it didn't actually happen so... I figured there'd be no point in kicking up a fuss about it.”

Sheppard nodded slowly, his lips quirking into a small smile. “Yeah. Thanks.”

Cam shrugged again, and changed the topic to football with no attempt whatsoever at subtlety. Sheppard didn't seem to mind, as he happily started grilling Cam about all the highlights he'd missed in the last ten years. Soon, they were grinning, and arguing, and Cam felt like he'd known the man for ages instead of just a few short weeks. He'd experienced it before, a time or two, meeting someone with whom he just fit, near-instantaneous friends. Daniel was one of these people, even though he had far less in common with him. Sheppard, he discovered, shared a lot of his major interests, flying and football, playstation games and fast cars, and he didn't even notice the time pass until a nurse brought Sheppard a tray with dinner and a growling stomach reminded Cam to go grab his own. He said his good-byes, promised to come back the next day, and reaffirmed that he'd lend Sheppard his old PSP while he was stuck in the infirmary.

***

Sheppard managed to be a good patient for five days. He stayed in bed, typing on his computer or playing with Cam's PSP, or leafing through the magazines Cam had brought as well. Most of the time, McKay was there, too, working on his own computer. The Atlantians had moved their ship closer to the sun the day Sheppard regained consciousness and Caroline had declared that she wanted to keep him for another week. He could have gone up to the ship, as they had medical facilities there, but Caroline had been reluctant to give up her patient, and it seemed the Atlantians had no problem with that, recent events notwithstanding. For whatever reason, repairing the ship was apparently easier closer to the sun, so the Cyrinius had left her orbit around Earth. Consequently, of course, travel and communication between the ship and the SGC was more difficult, and McKay camped out in the bed across from Sheppard's again for most of the time.

The sixth day after Sheppard woke up, Cam came into the infirmary to find his bed empty. It'd only been about two weeks since the Wraith invasion had been stopped and the Stargate Programme had been dragged into the light of day, but it felt more like two months to Cam, considering everything that'd happened. 

Cam looked around, failed to see Sheppard anywhere, and stepped back out into the hall. After a few inquiries with the guards stationed in the corridor, he turned to head down to the gym. It seemed Dex had showed up for a visit and only minutes later, he and Sheppard had been heading down to the gym. Maybe Cam shouldn't have gotten those BDUs for Sheppard yesterday... 

There was a small crowd of people outside the gym, marines, airmen and base personnel all craning their necks to watch whatever was going on inside. When they saw Cam approach, they shuffled out of the way, clearing the door for him while trying not to lose their spots in the crowd. Cam stopped just inside the door and felt his eyes widen as he took in what was going on inside.

He had expected Sheppard to be there, engaged in some form of physical activity he shouldn't be engaged in. After all, it _was_ a gym. He'd also expected Dex to be taking part in whatever activity Sheppard shouldn't be engaged in.

He hadn't expected to find the two of them trying to beat the shit out of each other with wooden swords. Dex was wielding one, about the length of his arm, while Sheppard had two, shorter and more slender, more a stick with a grip than a wooden sword. 

At the moment, the two men were circling each other, Sheppard low in a crouch, both weapons up defensively, while Dex looked almost unconcerned, posture tall and loose, strolling along, weapon at his side. Only the fact that he never took his eyes off of Sheppard indicated that he even paid attention to his opponent. He swirled his wooden sword, reaffirming his grip, and at that moment, Sheppard darted forward, one weapon lunging for the sword, the other coming in low, to the side of Dex's knees. Dex twisted out of the way, pivoting, and turned the momentum into a wide, downward swing of his sword, towards Sheppard's back, stretched out and unprotected in his lunge. Cam felt his breath catch, already tensing up in sympathy of the impending hit. With the momentum behind it, with Dex's reach and strength, a hit like that could break bones. But Sheppard, as if he had eyes in the back of his head, dropped and rolled, one boot lashing out towards Dex's ankle. Dex stepped back, and Sheppard used the moment to get back on his feet, lithe and graceful as a cat despite the sweat gleaming on his face. For a moment, Dex and Sheppard stared at each other, and then Dex moved in in one huge, absurdly quick step, and suddenly everything happened so fast that Cam couldn't keep track any more. The weapons clashed with sharp, loud sounds, Sheppard and Dex stepping and whirling and twisting around each other, almost like a dance. Swords arced and blocked and stabbed and tangled, the movements a blur, so fast that there could be no time for thought, only action and reaction, only instinct. Their bodies strained, eyes locked on each other, feet and knees and elbows just as fiercely seeking for an opening, a vulnerable spot, as the swords. And then they suddenly stopped, locked together, Sheppard's right blade blocking Dex's, Dex's left forearm blocking Sheppard's left blade. Sheppard's t-shirt was sticking to him in sweaty patches, the large, square bandage on his chest clearly outlined against the material. His breath was coming fast and choppy, his eyes narrowed in a glare of concentration and determination, locked on Dex's. Dex was breathing fast as well, but not nearly as much as Sheppard was, and Cam could see his Sheppard's muscles strain along his arms as Dex bore down on him. Then Dex sprang away, backwards, breaking the stale-mate, and Sheppard overbalanced for a moment, left foot instinctively lashing forward to catch his weight, and Dex was already on him again with a growl, sweeping that foot out from under him before his weight could properly settle, the knee of his other leg coming up to catch Sheppard square in the stomach, then the chin as he collapsed, wheezing, to the gym floor. One of his weapons clattered from his hand as Sheppard curled the arm around his mid-section, curling up in a foetal position. 

With a half-stifled shout, Cam hurried away from the door. Before he could reach Sheppard, Dex was already crouching down in front of him on his haunches, a broad, toothy grin on his dark features, wooden sword loosely held across his thighs. He rumbled something quietly in Ancient, and Sheppard used the hand that wasn't clutching his side to give him the finger, squinting one eye open to glare up at the other man. Dex laughed.

Cam crouched down as well, behind Sheppard's curved back since Dex was taking up the other side, and peered down worriedly. 

“John?” he asked. “You okay, man?”

Sheppard rasped out a chuckle. “Peachy, Cam. Just peachy.” He uncurled from his position, rolled to his hands and feet, and then levered himself up. Cam frowned at him, then at Dex, then back at Sheppard as he reached out to steady Sheppard with a hand on his shoulder as he staggered slightly.

“You sure? What were you thinking? What was _he_ thinking?” Cam jerked an angry chin towards Dex. “You've just survived a nasty infection with alien germs! Wait, aren't you supposed to stay in bed for another day or something?”

Sheppard quirked an ironic eyebrow at him and wiped the back of his hand over his chin where a small trickle of blood was coursing down from a cut lower lip. 

“Please, I'm fine. It was just a little sparring. I need to get back in shape, I can't afford to laze around in bed any longer. Do you know how much muscle I lose every day I lie around and don't move?”

“Yeah, I do, in fact,” Cam answered. Those were the sorts of things you picked up if you spent months and months in rehab. “But you can't just jump right in again, you have to take these things at a reasonable speed. And McKay and Caroline are gonna kill you, you know that, right?”

Sheppard snorted with wry humour. “Yeah, I s'pose. Fine, fine, cart me off to the infirmary again. Ronon can kick my ass some more tomorrow.”

“If Caroline doesn't tie you to the bed,” Cam pointed out dryly. Sheppard laughed as they made their way back up to the infirmary, Dex trailing them, the rest of the onlookers dissipating back to their duties as they realized the show was over. Cam was in no doubt that Caroline would know about Sheppard's little break of her bed-rest regimen in no time at all. 

And indeed, she was already waiting for them at the door to the infirmary, arms crossed and pretty face set in a dark frown. Sheppard's newly-split lip and bruised mid-section didn't improve her mood any, but Cam watched in amazement as Sheppard employed a mixture of mild flirtation and boyish 'aw-shucks' charm to melt her thunderous frown down into an exasperated eye-roll as she checked him over, and by the time she ordered him to “lie down and _rest_!”, she was much less upset than he would have expected. And McKay... when McKay came back from haunting the mess hall, he just looked between Dex and Sheppard, one man's grin and the other one's innocent expression that couldn't quite distract from the split bottom lip, rolled his eyes, snorted disparagingly, and plopped himself down into his chair to poke at his tablet. Sheppard and Dex started to play cards on Sheppard's blanket-covered legs, not a game that Cam recognized, and so, feeling thoroughly superfluous, Cam said his good-byes and went to see if he could find any of his former team. Sheppard waved a cheerful good-bye to him, which inexplicably lifted his mood. 

From then on, there was no keeping Sheppard in the infirmary any more. For the next few days, he could be found running through the corridors in the morning, sparring in the gym in the afternoon, and fighting with McKay over the food in the mess during meal times. And through it all, he made friends. Cam watched as Sheppard smiled and talked and oozed easy-going charm all over the place, as people started to nod to him in the corridors, smiled back at him, waved a greeting at him. Gone and forgotten seemed to be the reserve of the past few weeks, the professional distance, the cautious words. And Cam was pretty damn certain that Sheppard knew exactly what he was doing. So he sauntered into the infirmary one morning as Sheppard was just pulling on his boots, hair still wet from his shower. McKay, Cam knew, would already be off to breakfast, unable to resist the siren call of food, and Dex only showed up in the afternoon for a bit before duties called him back to the Cyrinius. 

“Hey Cam.” Sheppard gave him one of his teasing half-grins. Cam dropped himself down on the edge of the bed beside him, leaning back on his arms.

“Hey John. So... what are you up to?”

“Huh?” John's eyebrows rose in confusion.

“With this whole–” Cam waved a hand, “–'making nice'-thing. Don't think I haven't noticed how you're suddenly Mr Popular. What's the plan?”

Sheppard tried to look innocent, but the smirk tugging at the corners of his lips ruined the expression. 

“Noticed that, have you? Well, you've heard about that little stunt McKay pulled when we vanished?”

Cam nodded. “Hard not to.” He shook his head. “Bit excessive, that, wasn't it? I get that it looked a little bit suspicious, us just disappearing like that, but storming the base and putting a gun to Sam's head? Talk about overreacting...”

Sheppard, done with his boots, folded his hands, arms resting on his thighs, and stared down at them, face thoughtful. He slowly shook his head. 

“No, I get that. To be honest, I'd've reacted the same in his place.” He looked sideways, up at Cam, face serious and eyes dark. “We've lost people like this. Trusting the wrong people, giving the benefit of the doubt, only noticing the knife in our back when it was too late... Good people, valuable people, _friends_...” His eyes closed for the briefest moment, a flicker of pain flashing across his face. Then he shook it off, opened his eyes again, sat up straighter. “So, no, I get why Rodney did what he did. It was the right thing to do, all things considered, and no one got killed, so all's well as far as we are concerned.”

Cam opened his mouth to protest, but Sheppard raised a hand to stop him.

“I know you, all of you, aren't too happy about how this went down, and I don't blame you. God knows I'd be royally pissed if someone put a gun to Rodney's head. Hell, I've killed people for less. So, yeah, I understand why O'Neill glares every time he sees any of us, and why Landry just happens to be too busy for any talks at the moment, and I know you're having meetings to discuss whether you want anything to do with us at all. Thing is, we haven't been what you expected, we've been cautious and distant. And _we_ know where you're coming from, how your system works, how you're likely to react to a given situation, because we've been part of the system. But you have no way of knowing how _our_ system works, what rules we play by, which way we're going to jump if it comes down to it, because you haven't been there, you don't know where we come from, who we've become. So, _yes_ , I'm aware of all of that, and thing is, we don't _need_ you.”

Cam's eyebrows shot up at that and Sheppard looked him straight in the eye. 

“We don't. We've survived for ten years on our own, we can keep going. We've never been doing as well as we are now. But that doesn't mean that we don't _want_ a link back to Earth. It's not where we belong anymore, but it's still where we came from, and a lot of us still have people here we care about and who we'd like to be able to visit. So... my making friends is an attempt to smooth the waves, calm down some of your fears.” He shrugged. “I know it'll take more than a few smiles and a bit of small talk to convince the powers that be that we're not a security risk, not more trouble than we're worth, but it's a start.”

Cam let out a long breath and looked up at the concrete ceiling of the infirmary for a moment before turning his gaze back to his, yes, friend.

“You're right,” he admitted. “The top brass are pretty freaked out by the way McKay reacted. I mean... it's _McKay_ , for crying out loud!”

Sheppard raised his eyebrows in question. 

Cam gestured helplessly. “I think it's worse because it was _him_. If it'd been you... well, you've got a reputation as a wild card, and you're military, so if you point guns at people... it's what you _do_. But McKay...” He shook his head. “I didn't personally know him, back when he worked for the SGC before the Expedition, but I've read a couple mission reports with him in it, and I've heard _of_ him. And the guy I've heard about wouldn't know one end of a gun from the other. He was a theoretical physicist, not a field scientist, and he might've been the foremost expert on the Stargate, but he hadn't ever actually _used_ it before he went to Pegasus. So... everyone felt that he was the known element here– and then he held a gun to Sam's head.”

John smiled slightly, gave a rueful chuckle. “You're right, I forget how much he's changed. Pegasus will do that to you.”

Cam answered the smile. “For what it's worth, I'm pushing for those intergalactic relations. After all, you can't be such a bad guy after dragging my ass all the way through that forest.”

Sheppard shrugged, looking a little uncomfortable. “It's not that big a deal. What else would I have done?”

Cam laughed, because that kind of said it all, didn't it? Sheppard looked a little bemused, then got to his feet and stretched for a moment before he turned to look at Cam over his shoulder. “You coming?”

Cam grinned, and nodded, pushed to his feet, and followed Sheppard towards the mess.

***


	14. Chapter 14

John breathed a sigh of relief, felt a tightness across his neck and shoulders ease, as he stepped out of the jumper onto the floor of the Cyrinius' dart bay. The last few days of his eight-day stay in the SGC infirmary hadn't been so bad, with Rodney and Cam keeping him company, and Ronon showing up every day for some work-out, and he was up-to-date with the damage reports and progress of repairs, thanks to Rodney, but he'd been itching to check things out with his own eyes, and frankly, he'd simply missed his ship and his people. It was so damn _quiet_ in his head in the SGC bunker, without any MTI for him to connect with. And he couldn't really relax, really be himself, with so many strangers around. But Dr Lam had grudgingly agreed that there wasn't anything more she could do for him. He was rested, he was almost back to his normal weight, and the cut on his chest would heal in its own time. The thing that pissed John off the most about the entire ordeal was the strength and endurance he'd lost through the fever and the days he'd spend inactive in bed. But a few days of his normal exercise regimen, and he should be back in reasonable shape before the week was out. 

He breathed deep and cast a look at Rodney, walking along beside him, frown of concentration on his face as he poked around on his tablet. The Cyrinius' MTI was online in his head, a quiet background hum of door and light sensors, environmental controls, and life-support status. He'd need to be in the chair for anything more specific, but it was a relief to simply have these everyday applications at his command again. The air tasted faintly of machine oil and metal, a hint of smoke riding along to attest to the damage the ship had suffered. It was good to be home.

***

They had a quick briefing on the bridge, sitting on the floor and sipping sweet Athosian tea while Kimra gave him the latest updates on the repairs, Dr Biro informed him of the status of those still injured from the battle and Jinto gave him the latest news on the pilots. Rodney never left his side, seemingly alternating his attention between his tablet and the reports, but John could feel the tension oozing off of the man. John fidgeted, and had to admit that a similar feeling of apprehension was pooling in his gut. Sure, Rodney had been around almost non-stop for the past few days, and they'd bickered and bitched and argued just as they always did, but there was something unresolved between them, and it was getting worse.

They needed time alone. He needed a fuck– _they_ needed a fuck.

Rodney always needed to touch him after John had been through another near-death experience, only the physicality of touch enough to dispel the lingering adrenaline, the frantic mantra of “Oh-my-God-he-almost-died”. John knew the feeling, intimately. It wasn't any different for him, after all, if Rodney did the near-death thing. Though, to be fair, Rodney wasn't quite as prone to it as John was. Being in close proximity for days without an opportunity to give in to the instinct, restrictive Earth rules wrapping around them, had made the jittery feeling exponentially worse.

John swallowed and shifted his weight again. God, he was horny as hell. It wasn't true that he couldn't keep it in his pants for three days straight, no matter what Rodney claimed, but he _preferred_ not to, especially now that his body was of the opinion it was twenty-five again. Even if he didn't fuck anyone for a while, though, at least he could jerk off in the privacy of his quarters or the shower... Not so on Earth. Bed in the infirmary, nurses bustling around night and day (and in charge of changing his sheets...), communal showers... _How_ did these people cope, he wondered. 

There was another source for his own tense state, though. Damn it, he was determined to not let it touch him, not let it influence his life. It was hardly the first time he'd been captured, helpless and/or tied up. It was hardly the first time he'd gotten beaten up in those circumstances, and it wasn't the first time he'd been outright tortured. And it wasn't like it had actually _happened_. It _wasn't_.

But, he had to admit, it'd been a near miss, near enough to freak him out just a bit. Or maybe more than a bit, but he wasn't willing to go there, to let that be true. Of course, the torture in itself was a violation that wasn't so much different, a violation of the sanctity of his body, a twisted thing of power and cruelty and helplessness. He closed his eyes for just a fraction of a moment, and forced his breathing to remain even and deep. Once they were back in Lantis, he'd talk to Kate. He hated talking about himself in that way, baring his weaknesses and insecurities, and when Kate implemented mandatory monthly sessions with her for all personnel, she'd had to hunt him down and drag him to her office all but kicking and screaming, but over the years... he'd had to admit that it _helped_. It helped him understand himself better, it helped to hear his reasons and rationalisations spoken aloud, it helped to get _over_ stuff, not just repress the hell out of it as he would if left to his own devices. Experience taught him that, yes, this talking-thing was healthier no matter how much his inner macho, male self bristled. He'd come to think of it as ripping the arrow out of his flesh before the wound had a chance to fester, quick and, yes, painful as hell, but allowing the blood to run clean and wash out the dirt so the wound could heal. 

He dearly needed to rip this one out, but he'd just have to deal until they got back, because while he might understand the necessity, he didn't trust anyone but Kate with this, with these vulnerable parts of himself. She knew him, knew everyone, had been with them through everything, and wouldn't be shocked or disgusted by anything he did. She wouldn't judge him, experience taught him that, experience she had forced on him for his own good. 

But for the time being, he would have to deal with what had happened, and, yes, with what hadn't happened, and he wanted sex, dammit, and there was no reason for that tiny voice at the back of his head, deep down in the primal regions of his brain, to shriek in mindless animal panic. 

It _hadn't happened._

The meeting wrapped up, and John was under no illusions that the others had failed to notice his distraction. But these were his people, and they didn't even blink when he and Rodney left together, and if there'd been anything urgent that needed his full attention, they would've made him aware of it.

They were silent as they marched along the corridors towards John's quarters, nodding to the people they met on the way, but when John's doors slid open in welcome for them they still hadn't spoken a word since they'd left Earth. John crossed the room to stand in front of the bed, his hands going to the buckles on the new uniform jacket Rodney had brought him. He made a half-turn, suddenly unsure, uncomfortable, and looked over his shoulder to see what Rodney was doing. 

Rodney set his tablet on John's low, Athosian table in the centre of the room, not even looking at it, his eyes on John. Their gazes caught, held, as Rodney's hands fumbled at the buckles of his own jacket. Then Rodney was in front of him, breath harsh, crossing the room in a few quick steps, his jacket landing forgotten on the floor as he grabbed handfuls of John's shirt, brushing the lapels of John's jacket aside to get at the warm fabric, and dragged him down and in, head angling, lips opening. His tongue was in John's mouth before he could blink, and then they were kissing, hard enough to bruise their lips, hard enough to make the barely healed cut in John's bottom lip give a protesting twinge. He ignored it and instead kissed back, his hands clenching in Rodney's hair, then falling to his shoulders to clutch in the fabric there when it proved too short for a satisfying grip. One of Rodney's hands shot up to wrap around the back of John's neck, a warm, damp weight, keeping his head tilted at the optimal angle for Rodney's convenience.

John answered in kind, licked and sucked on Rodney's tongue, grazed his teeth along Rodney's lips. His breath came too fast, made him dizzy, or maybe that was his blood pooling far from his brain. He was painfully hard, and he wanted out of his clothes... and he was _this_ close to a panic attack, no matter how hard he tried to just drown everything in the moment. 

Rodney shoved at him, and he stumbled backwards, falling on his bed, blinking as Rodney descended to straddle his legs, tugging on John's jacket. John shrugged it off, blindly dumped it over the edge of the bed as Rodney moved in for another kiss, pushing him back, down, Rodney's hands hot even through the leather of gun belts and trousers at his hips. They kissed, messily, no finesse or romance in it, just lips and tongues and saliva all over their mouths and chins, and John's hands were clenching in Rodney's shirt, tugging at it, and Rodney was shuffling and shoving at him until he was sprawled out on his bed, legs spread around Rodney's knees, his head resting at what was usually the foot end. And then Rodney was stretching out, barely keeping his weight off of John's injured chest, broad and solid between John's thighs, the touch of his legs against John's burning even through two layers of leather trousers... and John's hands were somehow on his shoulders, shoving him up, back, away.

Rodney obediently sat back on his haunches, his expression confused as he looked at John, mouth opening to ask a question. John rolled on his side and scrambled halfway up to reach for the basket on the night stand to cover up his momentary lapse. He tried to give Rodney his best cocky grin as he tossed the lube and condom at him, and Rodney snapped his mouth shut again as he caught them, the heat back in his eyes even though the vestiges of a frown still remained on his face. John turned around, away, before Rodney could try to speak again, pushed himself up on his hands and knees. 

When nothing further happened, he craned his head to look over his shoulder at Rodney, giving him what he hoped was an inviting smirk, and forced himself to wriggle his hips at him. Rodney blinked at him for a moment, then his eyes dropped, and his tongue darted out to wet his lips as John saw his gaze wander down his back and fixate on his ass, offered practically in his face. John saw his Adam's apple bop as he swallowed hard, and then Rodney pushed up on his knees, his hands coming to rest on John's hips again. John turned his head away again, closed his eyes, and gritted his teeth. A sensory memory hit, just a flash, Neam's narrow, sweaty fingers on his hips, fumbling with his gun belts, the cold, gritty stone biting into his knees, the strain in his shoulders, the burn of the leather cord around his wrists, the smell of stone and rotting water, the stench of his own sweat and the tang of his blood and the pressure of the gun barrel against his head and blind panic threatening to overtake him. 

It was gone as fast as it came, but it left him cold and shivery, and made a definite dent in his arousal. John swallowed, and took several deep breaths, and forced himself to relax, allowing only his hands to stay clenched in the sheets. 

He was going to get _over_ this! 

For a moment he considered asking Rodney to tie him up, and while he had no doubt that Rodney would oblige, he was sure to ask questions, and John didn't feel up to answering them. Besides... he wasn't quite sure he could take that much verisimilitude.

Instead he breathed and focused on Rodney's hands, sliding down over his ass, fingers spread and palms pressing against him, getting as much contact as possible, slow and firm and still almost reverent, sure and very, very far from Neam's clumsy fingers. 

Rodney's fingers curled in towards the inside of John's thighs, finding the narrow leather strips that secured his holsters a few inches above his knees. It only took him a few moments to undo the small buckles, and then his hands were at John's hips again, making short work of the gun belts. They fell to the bed under John's stomach, and Rodney swept them out from under him and deposited them on the floor, with a little more care than they'd shown their clothes so far, and within easy reach. Still, John felt a whole lot more naked, more exposed, when his guns vanished from his sight. 

Rodney shifted and then his hands started to fumble with the buckles of John's boots, but John tugged his foot away and lifted his head to shake it at Rodney's questioning gaze. 

“Leave them,” he croaked. “Just... fuck me already.”

Rodney frowned slightly, even as his tongue darted out again to lick his upper lip, quick and pink. “You sure?”

John rolled his eyes, mostly for show. “Yes, Rodney, I'm sure! Just get on with it!”

That got him a bit of a glare, but John really wanted things to get on, to get this over with already, so he arched his back in invitation, drawing Rodney's attention back to the relevant part of his anatomy. 

Rodney gave him another sharp look, probably seeing more than John wanted him to, but his hands settled back on John's hips, and John let his head droop forward again, and went back to concentrating on _not freaking the hell out._

His shirt was tucked out of his pants, and warm, broad hands stroked once over his sides and back before fingers hooked into the laces at the sides and tucked them open wide enough to start dragging the warm leather down John's legs. John had to force himself to breathe deep and even as the cool air of the room brushed against his exposed skin, but he was okay, he wasn't panicking, he wasn't screaming, wasn't running, wasn't pulling away as Rodney's fingers returned cool and slick with lube. He refused to. Instead he shuffled around a little, spreading his legs as well as he could with his trousers tangled just under his knees, gave Rodney some room to work. 

Rodney's hands vanished and there was some rustling and shifting as Rodney got out of his own clothes, two muffled thumps next to the bed announcing that he had elected to do the sensible thing and get rid of his boots. John used the time to take some more deep breaths and consciously relax.

Rodney was back before he felt quite ready, but when he asked a strained “John?”, his hands hot and sweaty and eager on John's thighs, his hips, he just nodded his head and pushed back in invitation. Rodney didn't wait to be asked twice. 

With a heartfelt moan, he pushed forward, not fast, not brutal, but inexorable until his hips were pressed against John's ass. John dropped his head, buried his face in his forearm, because, God, it felt good, and he grabbed onto the physical pleasure, forced himself to focus on that and not the panic that still lurked in his mind.

Rodney gave him the moment he needed to adjust, and then, fingers firmly curling around John's hipbones, started to move. 

John's teeth sank into his lower lip and he reached out to press his right forearm against the wall at the foot end of his bed to brace against Rodney's thrusts. His other hand had a death grip on the sheets, forehead firmly planted against his arm as their breathing turned harsh, as sweat started to collect along every dip and curve of his body, as his muscles started to burn with the workout. 

Arousal shivered through him, and he was hard, but it wasn't spiking, wasn't growing, and for a little while, he wondered, half-panicking, whether he'd be able to come. 'Cause, _fuck_ , he didn't want to have to explain _that_ one to Rodney, and it'd mean that he was far worse off than he'd thought he was, far more affected than he wanted to be true. Rodney was settling into a rhythm, while John was dazedly groping for something, for that certain spark that had never failed him, that instinct that made sex just _work_ , that place beyond thought and reason, that feeling of “oh-please-please-please-let-me- _come_!” and which was just not _there_.

And then Rodney shifted slightly, sweaty palms sliding across John's skin as he wrapped an arm around him, low over his hips, drew him back into his body so John, startled, had to push off the wall and scramble up on his hands again, and Rodney's forehead came to rest in the middle of his back, breath harsh and hot and cold, sweat building where their skin touched, his other hand settled on John's thigh, and he moaned “ _John!_ ”, almost a sob– and suddenly everything was all right. Suddenly, John's back arched, pushing back into the solid heat behind him, his teeth flew out of his lower lip on a gasp, and suddenly, it was _Rodney_ , and he was safe, he was home. He knew that body, he _trusted_ that body, that man, and he relaxed, truly relaxed, picked up the rhythm and pushed back in answer, pressed back to curl himself into Rodney's body, let his knees slide further open on the sheets, enjoyed the press of Rodney's thighs against the back of his own. Rodney whimpered, his arm tightening almost painfully around John's hips, and John moaned, relishing the possessiveness of the touch. His breath was rasping out of his throat, and his arms were shaking with the strain, and he hadn't felt this good in a while. 

Rodney moaned again against the skin of his back and from the way he was losing his rhythm John could tell that he was close. Then there was the swipe of a tongue along his skin, and then lips and teeth as Rodney sucked a love bite into his back, just next to his spine. John shuddered, deliciously close to orgasm himself suddenly, and gave up on any semblance of control. He melted into Rodney, just let himself be taken, let Rodney fuck him to orgasm.

***

He woke up when he tried to turn and get more comfortable, and found the movement of his legs restricted. He blearily sat up and blinked in disorientation until he'd worked out that he was lying the wrong way around on his bed, that there was come drying all over his lap, and that his trousers were preventing him from moving his feet. He grumbled and sat up to get rid of his boots and trousers, then slipped out of his shirt and used it to wipe away the worst of the mess before tossing it over the edge of the bed. Rodney gave a sleepy growl as John's movements shifted the mattress, and John couldn't help but smile indulgently down at him, at the sweaty, dishevelled mess that he was. Rodney cracked one eye open, caught sight of the smile, and glared suspiciously.

“What?” he snapped. Of course, it came out muffled by the covers and hoarse with sleep, so John just couldn't help but smile wider. Rodney's glare became even more suspicious, then he rolled over with a groan, throwing one arm over his eyes and groping around with the other above his head. 

“Where's the damn pillow?” he complained, tone whiny enough to do a five-year old proud. John snorted. “Wrong end of the bed, Rodney. It's up there.” He gestured towards their feet. Rodney took his arm away to glare at him again.

“Well? Then don't just sit there, get it for me!” he demanded imperiously. John felt one of his eyebrows rise.

“Uh-huh... Yeah, right. Get your own damn pillow.”

Rodney pouted.

John crossed his arms.

Finally, with a put-upon sigh, Rodney heaved himself up enough to crawl towards the top end of the bed. Once there, he collapsed again, face firmly planted in the pillow, and seemed to be intend on going back to sleep. John followed him, and prodded him until he could drag the covers out from under Rodney's disgruntled bulk, then stretched out next to him, sighed in appreciation of his own bed. John dragged the covers over them, Rodney promptly grabbing a good fistful as soon as they were within his reach, and then he curled himself against Rodney's warm back. 

He was almost asleep again, when Rodney's quiet voice dragged him out of his doze.

“John?”

“Hm?”

“Are you... okay?”

“'m fine, Rodney,” John grumbled, hoping Rodney would catch the hint and just let it go, just let them go to sleep and forget about it. Rodney, contrary bastard that he was, had other ideas. He turned over so he could face John, face sleepy but with a hint of worry.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, Rodney.” John made sure to saturate the words with exasperation. 

Rodney frowned. “So what was all that about?”

John sighed. “All what?”

Now Rodney glared at him, sleepiness evaporating from his gaze.

“Oh, don't play stupid. Something was off with you at the start there, don't pretend it wasn't. And, let's not forget you were _tortured_ just a few days ago, so I think it's a perfectly valid question... oh.” Rodney, having sat up during his rant to cross his arms, blinked.

“What?” John asked warily.

“They...” Rodney looked down at him, eyes growing wide. John saw him swallow, lick his lips. “You... It's not... They didn't... right?”

“Didn't _what_ , Rodney?”

“You didn't get... raped, right?” Rodney's voice choked up on the word, and John saw real fear in his eyes. He huffed out a deep breath and dropped the bullshit. 

“No,” he said, looking at the wall panels above Rodney's shoulder. “No, I didn't.” 

He saw Rodney's shoulders slump with relief, his breath escaping in a huff. 

“Sorry,” Rodney muttered after a small, not entirely comfortable silence. John looked at him questioningly. “I mean, it was probably a stupid question, 'cause... well, you were in the infirmary and all, but that doctor lady would probably have mentioned something, and you'd have been in there way longer, and... well, I guess you wouldn't have been up to walking through a forest for three days...” Rodney actually blushed and broke off his rambling. 

John sighed and sat up as well so they could talk face to face. 

“It... wasn't a stupid question,” he admitted hesitantly. Rodney's gaze snapped to him, suddenly diamond-sharp, and John fought the urge to hunch his shoulders. He ran his hand through the fur on top of his covers, playing with the strands. 

“It was... kinda close,” he continued, looking at the hairs sliding through his fingers rather than at Rodney. “If Mitchell hadn't cracked... If he'd actually done what I told him to and kept his mouth shut...” He smiled ruefully down at his hand for a moment. 

“That's why he agreed to talk...?” 

John still didn't look at Rodney, refused to analyse his tone of voice. He nodded.

“Yeah.”

“So... how close is close?”

John's fingers clenched briefly in the fur, and he forced them to relax, smooth down the ruffled hairs. He shrugged.

“John?” Rodney asked when it became clear he wasn't going to answer beyond that. John looked up, suddenly angry.

“Look, it didn't happen, okay? Can we just stop talking about this?! I'm _fine_!” 

Rodney looked startled at the sudden outburst, then his eyes narrowed. 

“No, we can't just stop talking about this, you asshole! God, do you have to be so fucking _difficult_? We have sex all the time, so this is kind of important for me!”

John blinked at the outburst, and for some unaccountable reason, Rodney's anger made something that was far too warm and fuzzy to be analysed any further curl through his chest and stomach. He laughed a little, and let his head drop to Rodney's shoulder, nuzzling his collarbone. 

“I'm okay, Rodney, I promise. I'll do all the nasty 'dealing-with-this' shit when we're back home. I'll see Kate. And it didn't get any further than that asshole's hands on my gun belts, trying to get them out of the way.”

“Oh.” Rodney was silent for a moment, then one of his hands settled, a little hesitantly, on the back of John's head and started to drag through the short strands of hair there. “So... you're not just being your usual ridiculous macho-self when you say you're okay?”

“No, Rodney, I'm not.” John nuzzled the hollow above Rodney's collarbone some more, then turned his head to lap at his neck, then scrape his teeth over the spot. “I'm fine.” He pulled back enough to look Rodney into the eye. “Trust me.” 

Rodney's breath was just a little faster, his pupils dilating as John watched. 

“Oh,” he said again, feebly. “Okay.”

John felt a tiny bit bad about sort-of distracting him with sex, but he'd already said more on the topic than he'd intended to, and no matter how much more Rodney wanted to poke and prod at it, he wouldn't get any more answers out of John, so they might as well do something more useful with their time. 

“So,” John purred, looking at Rodney through his lashes, going for his best bedroom voice and eyes, “you up for round two?”

Apparently, that was good enough. At least, he took Rodney's “Guh.” for assent and the way Rodney's hands were clutching at his hair as he leaned in for a kiss seemed to support that theory.

***


	15. Chapter 15

John woke up a few hours later, rested and in an exponentially better mood than he'd been in since before the damned kidnapping. He left Rodney to snore away peacefully, and went to get a much-needed shower. On the way, he dropped his shirt into the Ancient washing machine, which resembled nothing so much as a drawer filled with blue, gritty fluid, but worked wonders on any sort of fabric. By the time he stepped out of the shower again, sore muscles pleasantly relaxed, his shirt was as good as new. Whatever the fluid was (one of the chemists had explained it to him once, but chemistry wasn't really his thing), it didn't adhere to any surface that he knew of, so his shirt was perfectly dry when he pulled it out. It was a sensation that had taken some getting used to, reaching into what looked like water, feeling the cool press against his skin, and yet pulling his hand out to find it dry. 

With a grin, he wondered what Cam would say to this, whether he would jump back with a yelp, inspecting his hand to check that everything was where it was supposed to be as Rodney had, or whether he'd poke a finger in again and again, fascinated, as Ford had, after one of the science teams had found them and declared them harmless, and they'd tried to divine these things' purpose. Ford's repeated poking had actually proved useful, as he'd accidentally hung his rather grimy sleeve in at some point, and pulled it out a little cleaner. From there, a simple experiment had proved that yes, they'd found the Ancient equivalent of a washing machine, which was a true blessing to the entire expedition, since not everyone was too fastidious about washing their clothes the old-fashioned way, scrubbing away with water and detergent– hence the disreputable state of Ford's sleeves. 

Rodney didn't stir when John reached to pick up his jacket from the floor next to the bed, face pressed into the pillow. As always, John wondered how Rodney could sleep without suffocating himself like that, but for as long as they'd shared a bed, Rodney'd slept either on his stomach or his back. John shook his head fondly, and slipped into his jacket. The leather was still stiff since it was brand-new, and John mournfully thought of the jacket that had been left behind somewhere in that prison, comfortable like a second skin after years of wearing it. It took him at least twice as long as usual to do up the buckles, and he flexed his shoulders, trying to settle it just right. The small golden clasp that denoted his rank was missing from his collar, lost with the other jacket, and he'd have to wait until they were back home to have a new one made. It just wasn't important enough to waste time and limited resources on at the moment, and it wasn't like anyone didn't know who he was, after all. Still, the loss rankled, especially when he had to face the Earth military again, decorated with insignia like Christmas trees as they were. 

He left his quarters and headed to the bridge to give his ship the attention he couldn't a few hours ago.

***

He spent the rest of the day checking and calibrating sensor read-outs, weapon capabilities and shield strength, crawled through service tunnels and access shafts with the repair crews, lent a hand with the soldering and wiring and all the thousand other things that needed to be done just right to make a ship space-worthy. He took readings to make sure their hull was regenerating the way it should, drawing on the electro-magnetic radiation from the sun and molecular building blocks from the nutrient fluid in the vascular system which was pumped from the storage tanks in the centre to the periphery. He checked for leaks in the various pipe systems that ran throughout the ship and for cracks in the metal support structure, a naquadah-alloy skeleton over which they'd grown the organic Wraith parts of the ship. The beautiful thing about partly biological tech was that it did a lot of building and repair on its own. At the very start, when this ship was no more than an ambitious, daring dream of Rodney's, the thought of that much Wraith tech, of _growing_ their own hive, had creeped him out, because it was just so damn _organic_. Yes, they had scavenged some old hives, and they basically made up the Confederation's fleet, but none of them really felt all that comfortable on those ships, even after they ripped out the storage pods and hibernation chambers and replaced them with crew quarters, cooking facilities and rec rooms.

But now that he had spent months on this ship... he had to admit that, somewhere along the way, he'd fallen in love with their hybrid-creation. Somehow, the Cyrinius had become home away from home, and he'd stopped feeling vaguely disgusted at the veins running through her walls, the knowledge that out there, her hull was growing on it's own, cells feeding on the nutrient fluid and dividing. 

It wasn't like the ship was sentient. Yes, she had organic parts, but none of those exceeded the complexity of specialised cells. There was no brain, no will, no personality to the ship as he and the others had wondered on occasion, before they'd understood how Wraith hives worked. For all that they had needed Carson's expertise with genetic engineering to build her, the ship was still just a tool, a weapon, a machine. Everything else, Rodney had pointed out, would be highly impractical, after all, wouldn't it? Imagine a battle ship with a sense of self-preservation. What if it decided to put its own life over that of the people who'd built it and who needed it to defend their planet? What if it decided it didn't want to die and just fled? Or what if it decided to attack on its own? No, that was just asking for trouble, and apparently, the Wraith thought so, too. For all their lack of organic parts, the Replicators were far more alive than the Cyrinius was, and John had to admit to a great deal of relief at that. Yes, he was attached to his ship, projected emotions at her in typically-human anthropomorphism, but in the end, he was aware that the ship had no actual capability for individual thought or action, and that was just fine with him. 

He was grimy and sweaty when he headed for the mess for dinner, all traces of his shower vanished under grease and machine oil, hydraulic fluid and soot, but he felt good, at ease and useful. He _really_ hated being confined to bed, paperwork and reports the only even vaguely useful work left to him. And since they tried to keep that to an absolute minimum, lest their own bureaucracy ate them before the Wraith could, he'd been bored out of his skull for the last week or so. R &R was nice and all, but he preferred not to be forced into it. 

Rodney looked up from his bowl when John dropped himself down on his usual cushion at their usual table, and looked him over with raised eyebrows. John grinned.

Rodney gave a snort. “You look like you had fun.”

“I did. What's for dinner?”

Rodney turned his attention back to his food and waved a distracted hand. “You know. The usual. Stew. Tava beans and ch'zapra meat.”

John dunked his spoon in his own bowl of stew so thick that he could only make out indistinct lumps and pieces. He had to admit, it didn't look all that appetizing, but he moaned in appreciation as he took his first bite. Whatever herbs and spices had gone into this, it had turned out just right, a little sweet, a little spicy, rich and tasty after too many days of Earth food. 

John was aware that he used to love pizza, hamburgers, fries, steak, all the cardiovascular sins of modern America, but he couldn't for the life of him remember _why_. Athosian cuisine had thoroughly converted him, and he hadn't even noticed it. He'd thought he remembered how food used to taste 'back home', had had more than one mouth-watering dream about mountains of mashed potatoes and buckets of gravy, about peperoni pizza, about fried chicken and fries with ketchup... as he was sure everyone else had, a reaction to the combination of the threat (or reality) of starvation and of living in a place where even something as every-day as food was a venture into unknown territory. 

But the delicious, mouth-watering flavours he remembered didn't seem to be there any more. Either food on Earth had taken a steep decline in the last ten years, or, more likely, it had always tasted that bad and he simply hadn't known any better. Whatever the case, nothing he'd eaten in the last week had actually tasted _good_. It was too salty, for one, and other than that, it was just bland, featureless, or, worse, artificial, a chemical tang to it that really didn't appeal at all. To make matters worse, Dr Lam had pushed huge helpings of the stuff on him, since he hadn't eaten for three days and all that. 

All in all, the food down there _looked_ much better than anything he'd eaten for the past ten years, colourful and familiar, but he was sure he was never going to miss it ever again. He was well and truly spoiled for institutional canteen food. 

He wolfed down his bowl and went to get more, and only slowed down once he'd gone through half of that as well.

“I missed this,” he sighed.

“What? Food?” Rodney looked at him with a puzzled frown.

“ _Good_ food,” John corrected and shook his head. “Don't know how I ever thought food on Earth tasted good. It's disgusting.”

Rodney considered this while he loaded his kuma flute. “Well... I remember it tasting much better, too. And I used to _like_ hospital food, but it just doesn't taste the same any more.”

John nodded, mouth full, and lit his own stick of kuma once he was done. They smoked in companionable silence while John let his eyes roam across the stars outside their window, only a few visible against the glow of the sun at their back, Mercury a small, blue dot far to the left.

***

“So,” John said, sprawled out on one of the benches at the back of the bridge.

“So,” Ronon repeated, seated cross-legged on the floor. 

They were having a full senior-staff meeting, Rodney there to represent the scientists, Kimra for the engineers, Jinto and Wex for the pilots, and Stackhouse for the Cyrinius' soldier complement. Even Biro had come to speak for the medical staff. They were all seated at the back of the bridge in a loose circle, kuma smoke scenting the air.

“What do we do about this Lucian Alliance?” John asked the group at large.

“You did warn them, right?” Rodney asked. 

“Yes, of course I did,” John answered grimly. “Of course, they didn't listen. Why do they never listen?”

Rodney gave a credible imitation of Ronon's growl. “I say we find the damn planet they kept you on and nuke it. They'll listen the next time.”

Ronon bared his teeth. “Can't say I disagree with the doc. Gotta show these people who they're dealing with.”

Stackhouse shrugged, his usually cheerful expression dark. “Fine by me. Though my boys wouldn't mind something more personal, mind. They're _very_ unhappy you got tortured, boss, and they'd like to get some of their own back.”

John sighed. “We're not gonna nuke the planet, Rodney. There could be people on it who had nothing to do with this. Besides, we're not destroying habitable worlds if we don't have to.”

Rodney huffed. “Fine, fine. As long as they pay, I don't care.”

“Oh, they'll pay,” Ronon promised, eyes glittering. 

John took a deep breath and a draw of his kuma flute, closed his eyes for a moment as he fought down the surge of bloodthirsty, cold fury that threatened to rise.

“We have to tread carefully, here,” he cautioned. “We'll be stepping on Earth's toes as it is, but I'd rather not cause a war they'd have to finish after we leave.”

“They kidnapped you,” Rodney hissed. “They _tortured_ you, and don't you dare pretend it wasn't that bad, don't you dare pretend that it doesn't _matter_ , because it _does_! You'd be out there killing already if it'd been any of us, so allow us to want the same!”

Their eyes locked for a moment, and John saw that Rodney hadn't forgotten his confession, hadn't forgotten what had almost happened to him, and that he was possibly more furious than John had ever seen him.

“I'm not saying that we should do nothing, let it go,” he said, his eyes still locked with Rodney's. “I'm just saying that we have to decide what exactly we want to do about it.”

“Kill 'em all,” Ronon drawled, hand petting the butt of his gun. 

“All who?” John asked, turning his head to look at the other man. “All of the Lucian Alliance, or all of those who were immediately involved in the kidnapping? Because I told Silak that we'd come for him and everyone under his command, so we're not really in a position to go after the top dog. And let's not forget that we're a long way from home, we have no friends, no back-up in this galaxy. Hell, we don't even have our own gate.”

“If this Ventrell character ordered the thing, we can hold him responsible,” Stackhouse pointed out. 

“We don't know that, though,” Kimra spoke up. “And as the Commander said, we have no way of procuring the necessary information in this galaxy since we don't have any of our own contacts here.”

“Exactly,” John agreed. “So, let's all agree that our target is Silak and whoever is stupid enough to get into our way in his defence. For the time being, we have no problem with the Lucian Alliance as such.”

“That's ridiculous!” Rodney protested. “Clearly, the bastard was acting in their interest, and, I'm sure, on their orders!”

John shrugged. “I know, but we don't have much in the way of proof. I didn't see all that many people who were involved in this, and no one mentioned anything about where their orders came from. Silak could have acted independently. Yes,” he said, holding up a hand before Rodney could interrupt him, “it's unlikely. But as I said, I don't want to start an all-out war we won't be here to see through.”

“Okay, so we kill this Silak. How do we find him?” Ronon asked. 

“You said there was a camp,” Rodney spoke up. “And no matter what you say, the people there are involved if they keep you in their prison.”

“Let's go there and ask around,” Stackhouse said, grinning maniacally. “I'm sure someone will be willing to talk, and if not... all the better. As I said, the boys are itching for some good old-fashioned revenge, and I'm sure they can come up with some incentives for these people.”

“First, we'll have to find the planet,” Rodney interjected sharply. “I've got the data I downloaded from the gate crystal, but we didn't even go through a third of that before you dialled back in.”

“I caught a few of the symbols,” John admitted. “If you show me the addresses you downloaded, I'm pretty sure we'll be able to find the right one pretty quick.”

“What? Why didn't you say so sooner?” Rodney asked accusingly. 

John rolled his eyes. “It didn't really come up. I'm telling you now, so don't bitch.”

“So, we find the planet, then we find Silak. Then we kill him.” As usual, Ronon summed up all the really important points. Heads nodded around the circle. 

“We'll invite Earth along, though,” John said, and everyone stared at him.

“Uh... _why_?” Rodney asked after a moment of silence. “Quite apart from the fact that I still think it's half their fault for having such crappy security, and we shouldn't let them get off as lightly as we are, you know they won't understand this. They'll try to stop us.”

“Mitchell was kidnapped, too, they deserve their own slice of revenge. We'd offer this to any of our other allies, and I don't think we should make an exception for Earth. And, no, they won't understand, but if we want to have any sort of stable relations with them, they need to know who we are. Frankly, I'm sick of hiding, of pretending we still follow the same old rules and laws, _their_ rules and laws. If we just keep up this façade, it'll come back to bite us in the ass, I'm sure of it. They'll catch wind of something they don't approve of, and they'll judge us by their own rules, treat us like criminals and demand that we accede to their system. At that point, we'll have the choice to bow down and give up a piece of our independence, and they'll keep taking until we're back under their control, re-integrated, or we'll have to tell them at gun point to shove it up their ass and leave us alone. Neither of those options include future peaceful, equal trade relations. So I say we take a stand now, we're up front about what we're about to do, and then we'll know where we stand. As I already told Mitchell, we don't _need_ them. We want them as allies and partners, but we don't need them.”

There was a brief moment of silence, then Rodney sighed.

“I hate it when you're right,” he grumbled. 

“Yeah, good point, boss,” Stackhouse agreed. 

“It's your planet,” Ronon said with a shrug when John looked at him. “I guess they'd make good trading partners, but I don't really care as long as we get our revenge.”

“So we're agreed?” John asked, and received nods all around.

“I'll have the infirmary ready for any injuries,” Doc Biro assured him. “And if you need any drugs to get the prisoners to talk... well, you know what we stock.”

John nodded his thanks at her, then turned back to Rodney.

“So, we can reach that planet where they cut out Mitchell's transmitter, right? It was just a couple hours with that cargo ship, the Cyrinius shouldn't have a problem getting there.”

“Yes, we have the coordinates, and it'll just be a short hyperspace jump. With our drives, we should be able to reach it in less than two hours, and the repairs are almost finished. The jump is no problem, and even if they have ships in orbit, she can take an engagement or two.”

“Great,” John said. “Then I guess I'll go and invite our friends from Earth to our little field-trip.”

“That's not going to go over well...” Rodney muttered.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, dear readers, this is where I ask for your help: American attitudes towards revenge- what are they like? And any difference between military vs civilian? Because, to my European sensibillities, what the Lantians are proposing is _wrong_ \- do not pass go, do not collect 200 Euros, that way lie bad, bad things, this is not in keeping with the ideals of a lawful society. But, considering what attitudes I see displayed by TV shows, movies and historical events- that's not likely to trouble American military/politician types? Or is it one of those cases where we say (and even believe) one thing but act on a completely different impulse? Any feedback would be much appreciated! Leave it in the comments! (All of which I do read, and appreciate, even if I don't get around to answering them in a timely fashion at the moment, sorry 'bout that!)


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just wanted to thank everyone for their comments! Your response was amazing, and I've read them all with great interest. I'm not sure whether I'll get around to replying to everything individually, so I just wanted to take this opportunity to say: Thank you very much, you're amazing readers!

“You wanna _what_?” General O'Neill snapped into the microphone in the control room.

“I'm inviting you or any of your personnel who wish to, Colonel Mitchell especially, to accompany us on the retaliatory mission against Silak we're about to set out on,” Sheppard's voice sounded out of the speakers. 

“Now, hang on a second, Sheppard. Retaliatory mission? What are you talking about?!”

“As Elizabeth informed you when she declared our independence, any unwarranted hostile action against us may draw severe retaliation. Torturing me definitely counts as unwarranted hostile action, and as required by the Founding Charter, I warned Silak when he captured Mitchell and me and gave him a chance to back down with no further consequences. Since he chose to ignore the warning, we're now preparing to draw the promised consequences.”

“What sort of consequences are we talking about here, exactly?” O'Neill sounded wary.

“I told Silak if he didn't let us go we'd hunt him down and kill him and everyone under his command. Since we don't really have the time or resources to find everyone under his command, we're only going after him, though.”

“You... you want to kill a man? In cold blood? Sheppard, are you seriously telling me you're planning to murder a man and asking us whether we want to come along?”

“Essentially, yes.” Sheppard sounded blasé, almost bored, and Cam didn't quite know what to make of it. 

“You know I can't let you do that, Commander,” O'Neill said, leaning over the console in the control room, face drawn into a frown. 

“I'm not asking for your permission, General,” Sheppard replied, pleasantly, but Cam heard a razor edge of steel in his voice. “I'm merely offering you as the second wronged party a chance to participate, like I would any ally and trading partner. It's considered good manners where I come from.”

“Sheppard, you're not listening! I don't care how you do things where you come from, but this is the Milky Way, and I won't have you murder people in our own backyard!”

“I wasn't aware there was some form of multilateral treaty or code of conduct in place here in the Milky Way. If you have some sort of frame like that that the Lucian Alliance is part of, I'm happy to look it over and consider adhering to it.”

Cam saw O'Neill raise a hand and scrub it through his hair with visible frustration. “We don't have any sort of treaty with the Lucian Alliance, Commander.”

“So which law do the people of this galaxy apply when dealing with each other?”

“Well... their own, I guess.” From his unhappy tone, O'Neill was as aware as Cam was of where Sheppard's argument was going.

“So I ask that you respect ours, General. Of course I'm aware that there is no provision for revenge in American law, or the Geneva Convention. But your rules don't apply to us. We are not under your jurisdiction, General, and neither is the Lucian Alliance.”

“You might not be under our jurisdiction, Commander, but if you start an all-out war with the Lucian Alliance, that's damn well my concern!”

“I have no intentions to start a war we'll not be here to see through, General. If we had definite proof that our abduction and torture was ordered by this Ventrell, yes, maybe. But we don't have any such proof, so my senior staff and I agreed that we'd restrict our actions to Silak, and I intend to make it very clear that we're not looking for trouble with the Lucian Alliance as a whole and, if you choose not to join us, that we're not in any form representing Earth's interests in this. We're quite serious about our independence, General, and we're just as serious about letting people know about it.”

“Sheppard...” O'Neill rubbed a hand across his face again. “You can't just set out to murder a man.”

“Yes, General O'Neill, since I warned him in no uncertain terms that I would, I can. Ask Colonel Mitchell, he was there. I told Silak clearly that my laws entitled me or my people to come after him. That he chose to ignore my warning is not my responsibility. The next time, people'll know that we don't make idle threats.”

“You're going to make an example of him.”

“Very much so, General. Will any of your people be accompanying us?”

“I'll have to discuss this with my superiors, Sheppard.” O'Neill was frowning fiercely.

“Of course, General,” Sheppard agreed graciously. “We'll be taking off in approximately two hours. Just let us know your decision by then. And, General?” 

“Yes, Commander?”

“I understand that this might be the point where you decide that you can't in good conscience establish trade relations with us. If that's the case, we'll be leaving after we deal with Silak, no hard feelings. But we won't give up our right to our revenge, no matter what you offer us.”

“I hear ya, Commander. Now if you'll excuse me, I'll have to go talk to some people.”

“Of course, General. Sheppard out.”

***

“Think they're gonna send someone with us?” Ronon asked in the quiet on the bridge after the radio link was terminated.

Rodney snorted. “I'm more worried about whether they're going to try to stop us. I mean, what if they send out a warning or something? What if they attack us?”

“I don't think they'd go that far for someone they don't even know, like Silak,” John pointed out. “Just in case though, keep an eye on our sensors, would you?”

Rodney huffed, then grumbled “Fine!”, giving John a look that suggested that his genius was required for far more important things than monitoring sensors. John just grinned at him.

“As for warning Silak... They'd have to find him first, and I don't think they have much better sources than we do, at least on short notice. Otherwise, I'm assuming they would've been able to find Mitchell and me a lot faster.”

“I guess,” Rodney allowed. “Jackson was out to look for a contact of theirs, but from what I understood, it took him most of those three days to find that person.”

Ronon raised his eyebrows. “Don't they have friends in this galaxy?”

John shrugged and looked questioningly at Rodney. He wouldn't know, since he'd never spent enough time in the Stargate Programme to become overly familiar with its inner workings. 

Rodney threw up his hands. “What are you looking at me for?! I never cared about that sort of thing when I was working for the SGC! Hell, I spent most of my time at Area 51. And what little of galactic politics I'm aware of is ten years out of date.”

John and Ronon shared a look of mutual long-suffering at Rodney's usual snappish tone, and dropped the topic by silent agreement.

“Well, we'll just head to the camp, and then we'll see what we'll see,” John said. “I'm pretty sure someone there'll be able to tell us where Silak is. If not... we'll just have to do a little of our own exploring. It's not like we've never done this before.”

“Yeah,” Ronon growled with a grin, twirling his gun around his hand, “I'm sure we'll find someone who'll like to talk to us.”

Rodney snorted. “With you there? Of that I have no doubt.”

“Wanna join in?” Ronon asked and Rodney looked up from the controls he was poking at during their conversation. John watched the two of them share a long look, then Rodney nodded slowly, lips pursed in contemplation.

“Yes. Yes, I think I'd want to, if it comes to that.” He shot a quick look at John, fierce and dark and daring him to say anything about him joining Ronon in torturing any potential prisoners, and then turned back to the console. John felt one of his eyebrows arch slightly. Okay, so it seemed Rodney was more upset about the kidnapping than John had realized. Then again, he had wanted to nuke the planet. Yeah, Rodney was pissed all right. Still, large scale destruction was more Rodney's usual style rather than torture. Maybe it was the whole John-almost-getting-raped thing.

***

If he were still Colonel Jack O'Neil, SG-1, Jack thought he'd probably have liked Sheppard. As General Jack O'Neil, Homeworld Security, he pretty much hated him. Sheppard was a _headache_. Sheppard was trouble, was a fucking pain in the neck. Too headstrong, too independent, too _alien_. He'd never liked McKay, and didn't think he ever would, but McKay was _manageable_. Dex'd just be another alien. Sheppard… Sheppard was a smirking, pretty, insolent wild card. And Jack was the one stuck sorting this latest god awful mess Sheppard'd handed him.

There was the IOA, making outraged noises about human rights and the Geneva Convention and due process. Truth was, they just didn't want to get involved. People kidnapped off of the White House's lawn? An 'isolated incident'. Jack'd pretty much ripped them a new one and squeezed some funding out of them for Area 51, but it was like squeezing blood from a stone, as per goddamn usual: They didn't want there to be another alien threat, therefore they'd decided that there wasn't another alien threat. 

Then there were the Joint Chiefs. At least half of them still had notions of dragging the Expedition back home kicking and screaming if they had to, and a couple probably had wet dreams about hauling Sheppard in for a good old court martial. But at least they were smart and seasoned enough to know that that plan'd be doomed to fail. They didn't have the technology to take the Cyrinius by force, never mind rounding up the majority of their people who were apparently sitting pretty in Atlantis and had no desire whatsoever to leave. And there was the fact that McKay'd stormed the _SGC_. No one was going to forget about that in a hurry, but it did make even the most aggressive of them tread somewhat carefully, for which Jack was _almost_ grateful. At least it was something he could point to and say: “No, really, they will totally shoot us.”

There was the President and his closest advisers, and _him_ Jack kind of had to listen to, and so his actual orders were essentially “get us that technology, no matter what, we'll pay for it if we have to,” which meant he had to play nice with Sheppard and Co. and couldn't just tell them to get the hell out of his galaxy and take his headaches with them. 

There was the SGC, the good, brave men and women serving there who Jack actually liked and respected for the most part, and they all liked Mitchell– everyone liked Mitchell– and Mitchell liked Sheppard, and somehow, while Jack hadn't been looking for a few days, busy wrangling politicians, that had translated to them liking _Sheppard_. Sheppard'd gotten their favourite Colonel back home, Sheppard'd actively told Mitchell not to reveal any information, to hear Mitchell tell it, and yeah, these were the people who were _actually_ out in the field, out there in the galaxy, these were the people on the front lines– these were the people who _got_ it. 

And _then_ there was the _public_ , because lets not forget they were in the middle of thrice-dammed Declassification, and the _last_ thing Jack needed was an intergalactic war to panic a populace who was still dealing with their first alien invasion. To hell in a hand basket didn't begin to describe the mess they'd be in if this went wrong. So far, there were only an isolated few nutjobs screaming about divine punishment and the end of days, but there was a certain critical mass to these kinds of things. And Jack'd been around the block often enough, knew his military history well enough, that he was aware that the stability of governments, of states, of a whole way of life could be deceptively fragile. He hadn't saved the world from aliens a bunch of times just to see it go up in flames through internal conflicts.

So, yes– Sheppard wasn't his favourite person just at the moment.

***

“Are we sure about this?” Cam asked. They were sitting in the meeting room, General Landry, O'Neill, Daniel and him.

O'Neill raised his hand to rub at his eyes. “I'm not exactly happy with it, either.”

“No one here is particularly happy with this turn of events, but the President was very clear in the matter: The technology they can offer us is too valuable to risk antagonising Sheppard for a man like this Silak character, who is clearly a threat to us.” Landry's bushy brows were drawn down into a thunderous frown, but his voice was firm.

The revenge Sheppard had been talking about didn't quite sit right with Cam, either. It just wasn't _right_. But he also remembered Sheppard's screams. He remembered the blood and the fear, could only imagine the pain. And there was a part of him, a dark, primal part, that whispered that maybe revenge was the answer, that only blood and pain could pay for blood and pain, that maybe killing someone would help with the nightmares, would release that nasty, twisted knot in his chest that throbbed every time he _remembered_. Cam knew that part of himself, he was pretty sure everyone had it. But he never gave into it, never let it rule his actions, never let himself cross a certain line. Yes, he killed people for a living. It was what being a soldier was all about, after all. And there were some kills he really lost no sleep over, some he couldn't help but feel were deserved. But he never let that be his only, or even his main, motivation. He never killed someone just because he'd said he would.

It wasn't how they worked. But he didn't think there was anything they could say or do short of physically stopping the Lantians that was going to stop Sheppard from going after Silak. And that made this a question of whether they were willing to attack Sheppard's people, who'd helped them and, hell, saved the damn planet from the Wraith, to protect a guy who kidnapped them and handed Sheppard over to that psychopath Neam to be tortured so they could destroy Earth's ship-building facilities. And Cam was damn sure that they wouldn't have given a shit about the people working in those hangars when they bombed them from the face of the planet. The Lucian Alliance'd have killed hundreds of people, and he didn't want to see what a galaxy looked like where the Lucian Alliance were running the show.

Cam glanced at Daniel, who was unusually quiet, frowning a little at his notepad. 

“No objections, Daniel?” O'Neill asked him, and Daniel looked up, met everyone's eyes briefly, tapped his pen against the paper. “Yeah, no, I get it.”

O'Neill raised his eyebrows at him and Cam blinked in surprise. 

“I would've done a lot worse to Apophis after he took Sha're if I could've,” Daniel explained quietly, and a brief, pained silence settled over the table.

“In any case,” Landry said, clearing his throat, “the decision has already been made. President White has ordered us to not interfere with the Atlantians' plans in this matter. In fact, since the invitation has been extended, he's requested that you tag along, Mitchell. We need to know what the fall-out from this will be. So, Colonel, if that's all right with you, accompany them for as much of the mission as they let you and keep your eyes and ears open.”

“Yes, Sir,” Cam said, even as he tried to catalogue the conflicting emotions that order inspired in him. On the one hand, he was looking forward to spending more time with Sheppard, and to see these people and their ship in action. He had to admit it, he was curious as to the internal workings of their military. On the other hand, essentially spying on Sheppard didn't sit quite right with him, and he wasn't sure whether he could watch this revenge mission up close and personal and not interfere.

“We could send a couple marines with you,” O'Neill suggested. “If you'd like some back-up.” 

“I could go,” Daniel volunteered. 

“You're not going, Danny,” O'Neill told him dryly. Daniel narrowed his eyes at him, and O'Neill raised his eyebrows. “You and I have a policy meeting with the President and his advisers.” 

Daniel looked mutinous, but there wasn't much he could do about that. 

“I'll be fine,” Cam assured O'Neill, and General Landry took that as a sign to end the meeeting, shuffled his papers and dismissed them. So Cam went to get geared up, while Daniel stalked out of the room after O'Neill, face thunderous.

***

“Hey, Cam,” Sheppard greeted him when Cam stepped onto the bridge of the Cyrinius after the silent young woman who had escorted him there. Stackhouse had picked him up with a jumper a good half hour earlier, but had handed him over to the young woman once they disembarked in the hangar and left at a jog, hand pressed to the radio hooked over his ear as he spoke rapidly in Ancient. There was more activity in the hangar and the corridors than the other time he'd been on the ship, black-uniformed men and women hurrying in all directions, faces set and stride efficient.

“Hey, John. Dr. McKay, Commander Dex.” He looked questioningly at the small, blonde woman working at a console next to McKay, who didn't spare him more than a brief glance, while Dex gave him a critical once-over that made Cam feel like he'd been judged and found wanting, and grunted something that might have been a greeting before he turned back to leaning on yet another console and staring intently at the huge screen that took up most of the front wall of the room. 

“Oh, this is Kimra of the Travellers,” Sheppard introduced with a wave of a hand. “Kimra, Colonel Cameron Mitchell.”

Kimra inclined her head to him, and Cam smiled his friendliest smile, trying to look nice and approachable. “Pleasure to meet you.”

She smiled back, very slightly, but he couldn't tell whether he'd managed to make a good first impression, or just a fool of himself. He couldn't help but notice that she was beautiful, platinum blond hair brushing her shoulders, framing her delicate, triangular face, her eyes strikingly dark in contrast. She was also tiny, the crown of her head barely coming up to his shoulder, and she looked somewhat out of place as the only woman among them, all of the men in the room towering above her. But she moved with a competence and assurance that made her even more attractive, and Cam needed a blink before he could refocus his attention on Sheppard– who regarded him with a faint, knowing spark of amusement in his eyes. 

“So,” Sheppard said, raising an eyebrow at him. “Frankly, I didn't think they'd take us up on that offer to come with.”

Cam shrugged, a little uncomfortable. “Well, frankly, I'm supposed to keep an eye on things, y'know, not so much participate.”

“I see.” This time, both of Sheppard's eyebrows went up, but he didn't look particularly bothered by Cam's admission that he was basically there to spy on them, and he just turned towards McKay, who was still pushing flat, crystalline buttons on one of the consoles in front of the screen. Cam crossed the bridge to stand next to Sheppard, curious to see the screen from closer up. 

“How're we doing, Rodney?”

“Mmh...” McKay pressed another button and watched the screen for a moment. There was writing running over it, but Cam couldn't read it. “We're good to go whenever you want. Hyperdrive's online, course is plotted, all systems are go.”

“All right, take her out.”

Cam couldn't tell whether they were actually moving with inertial dampeners engaged and the lack of windows, since the screen didn't tell him anything, but a few minutes later he felt the tell-tale lurch of entering hyperspace. 

“Where're we going, anyways?” he asked Sheppard quietly.

“The planet where they send us through the gate. You know, the grassy one?” Cam nodded his understanding. “Since they found your transmitter there, we've got the coordinates, and from there, we'll look for the planet with the camp.”

Cam shuddered slightly. “Can't say that I look forward to seeing the place again...”

Sheppard gave him a side-long look, eyes narrow, lips curving into a smirk. “Oh, I really kind of do...” His hand fell down to rest on the butt of his right gun, fingers curling around the grip. 

“Uh... right.” Cam dragged his eyes back up to meet Sheppard's for a moment, then he turned his head forward to look at the incomprehensible writing flowing over the screen again, uncomfortable. Something in Sheppard's expression, in his eyes, made the hair at the back of his neck stand on end and he swallowed, stuffing his hands in his pockets. 

He had to force himself not to lean away, not to get the hell out of arm's reach, because at the moment, Sheppard set off every warning bell he had.

***

There wasn't really anything for him to do for the duration of the flight, so Cam ended up sitting on one of the benches with a cup of tea Sheppard had someone get for him with the rest of the people on the bridge. Apparently, the ship did a lot of the flying itself, because after about ten minutes of flight, everyone had abandoned their stations at the consoles and instead moved to the back of the room and the low benches there. Dex dropped his long body on one of them, face buried in one arm, the other dangling to the floor, and seemed to go right to sleep. McKay picked up a tablet from somewhere and sat down with that, back resting against the wall. Kimra daintily sat down right next to him, one hand on his shoulder, and leaned in so she could see the screen as well. Cam expected McKay to protest, to throw a fit, or, considering there was an attractive woman hanging all over him, to grow flustered. Cam, certainly, would have had to work on the nonchalance in his place. McKay, though, didn't seem to find anything unusual about the situation, and the two of them stuck their heads together over the tablet's small screen, a close, intimate distance, and started to talk quietly in Ancient, their hands moving over the screen. Then Sheppard dropped himself down in the generous amount of space McKay had left between Cam and himself, Cam on one end of one of the benches, McKay and Kimra all the way on the other end of the next bench. Sheppard draped himself over the entirety of that space, sideways, his boots up on the bench next to Cam's thigh, crossed at the ankles, the back of his head resting against McKay's shoulder.

Cam blinked, and tried to process the image of Rodney McKay sandwiched between two very attractive people, and not batting so much as an eyelash. In fact, he barely seemed to register Sheppard's presence, only shifted his shoulder slightly to better brace against Sheppard's weight. 

Sheppard smirked at Cam for a moment, as if he knew what Cam was thinking, then he closed his eyes, hands loosely folded over his stomach, and apparently joined Dex in taking a nap, leaving Cam to wrap his head around the incongruous image on his own.

Because, this was _Rodney McKay_. The man projected a bubble of personal space a mile wide, complete with razor-wire fences and “Do not trespass on pain of death”-signs. He was prickly, and rude, and condescending, and even Cam, who got teased about his stubborn insistence to always see the best in people, found it hard not to violently dislike the guy. 

And it was _Sheppard_ , who seemed to be McKay's opposite in every way, and who appeared to cultivate some sort of amiable enmity with McKay. Then again, the only positive side of McKay Cam had seen so far was his refusal to leave Sheppard's side as he lay in the infirmary, so maybe they were closer than it seemed at first glance. Still... Cam considered himself a bit of a touchy-feely guy, but he wouldn't just... _cuddle up_ to one of his friends like that, not even Sam or Daniel, or, God forbid, Teal'c. He might slap them on the back or put an arm around their shoulders if the mood allowed it, he hugged them if the occasion called for it, but he wouldn't display this level of casual _intimacy_ , not even with his team mates, and they were in many ways, even after they hadn't been a team for years, the people closest to him. The only person he knew with a similar attitude towards personal space was Vala, and she was... well, she was Vala.

Maybe it was just something Sheppard did. Cam remembered how readily Sheppard had curled up close to him when they'd been on the run through the forest. He'd thought it was simple necessity, the practicality of survival every soldier knew, but maybe there was another element to it. 

Cam eventually gave up trying to figure it out, and rested his head back against the wall, closing his eyes as well. It was probably a good idea to get some rest while they could, and after the frantic activity that seemed to stretch back over the past month, he appreciated the moment of breathing space.

***


	17. Chapter 17

The sun was high in the sky above the grassy plain as they landed with five jumpers around the gate. Dark shadows were moving slowly in the distance, but they were far away and a glance through Cam's binoculars confirmed that they were merely some type of large animal, and didn't seem to have any intentions to come their way. 

McKay and two young men were unloading the Atlantian equivalent of a MALP while Sheppard stepped up to the DHD and started dialling the first of eight addresses that could be their destination. The man continued to surprise Cam. It had all gone too fast for him to register the gate address that was being dialled, and they hadn't been in a position to see the DHD, but Sheppard had still somehow managed to catch some of the symbols as the chevrons locked, and so had narrowed down the list McKay had downloaded from the control crystal. 

Dex and Stackhouse were leaning against the hull of a jumper, talking quietly. Both were wearing native clothing rather than the usual Atlantian uniforms. Dex was in a sleeveless shirt, rough-woven and with leather strengthening the edges, leather chaps over trousers and boots, and a calf-length leather coat with a bit of fur brim around the shoulders that made him look possibly even larger and more imposing. All the clothes were in soft, natural tones, browns of various shades, only the coat a bit darker, a stark contrast to the black uniforms everyone but the two of them were wearing. Stackhouse was dressed similarly, in brown leather pants and a long-sleeved, off-white shirt that looked very much like the one Sheppard had worn under his uniform. The plan, as Cam had understood it, was for them to go to the camp and try to gather intel about Silak's whereabouts without arousing too much suspicion. McKay, of all people, had been pressing to simply round up all the inhabitants of the camp and, quote, “shoot people until they tell us where he is”, but to Cam's relief, Sheppard had vetoed that, had decided that they were going to try to get the information in a non-violent way first. Cam had to admit, Dex and Stackhouse certainly didn't look like members of any military he had ever come across before. Between the dreadlocks and the burn scars, they made very convincing natives of dubious morality, just the sort of people who would have dealings with the Lucian Alliance.

McKay brought the MALP up to the gate as the wormhole connection engaged. Well, it was more like a cross between a MALP and a UAV. It had a wingspan of about three feet and was maybe two feet long and looked a bit like a miniature fighter plane, triangular, painted in woodland camouflage on the top and a medium grey on the bottom to make it harder to spot. McKay set it on a short metal ramp in front of the active gate, about a foot above the ground, and then stepped back to launch it with the press of a button on something that had the size of a PDA, but from the antenna sticking out of it, was probably a remote control. Twin jets of flame shot out from under the wings and the little plane vanished into the event horizon. Cam followed Sheppard as they gathered around the screen of McKay's tablet as the telemetry from the planet came in. 

There were trees, thick, forested hills, dark-green, stretching into the distance.

“That's not it,” Sheppard observed quietly, just as Cam came to the same conclusion. “The leaves have the wrong colour, and there's no river valley.”

“Atmospheric composition is off, too,” McKay observed, eyes flicking to the read-outs running along the sides of the camera view. “The carbon dioxide ratio is too high for humans.”

“Okay, initiate RHP and cut the connection.”

“Already on it,” McKay grumbled as he focused on the remote control in his hand.

“RHP?” Cam asked Sheppard quietly.

“Oh, Return Home Protocol. The MALP locks onto the gate, remote-dials and flies back through.”

Cam blinked. “That's... really cool.”

Sheppard's face lit up in a grin. “Yeah, it is, isn't it? We just couldn't afford to lose the MALPs if they went through a space gate or into inhospitable terrain, but we also didn't want to risk people's lives to retrieve them. So Rodney adjusted some of the automatic jumper protocols and fiddled with it until we had something that worked. Of course, we had to re-program that one for your gates here, so here's to hoping that it's coming back...”

As if on cue, the wormhole closed. A few seconds later, the chevrons lit up with an incoming wormhole, and almost as soon as it was established, the little plane zipped back through, angling upwards before banking and performing a neat landing right in front of their feet. McKay leaned down to pick it up, plucking blades of grass out from around the small wheels at the bottom while Sheppard dialled the next address on the list.

The next planet was a desert, the air shimmering over blood-red sand, and the one after that a steaming jungle, gigantic tree-trunks towering over the gate. And on the one after that, ground fog rolled over a meadow in front of the gate, opening up to the glitter of a small river between hills thickly covered with forest, black tree-trunks supporting canopies of silvery leaves, the morning sun a watery glow in an overcast sky. 

Sheppard snapped his fingers, pointing at the screen.

“That's it, that's the planet.”

***

In the end, it turned out that they didn't have to look far: Silak was in the camp.

Dex and Stackhouse established that when they walked right up to the camp in their native clothing and asked for the man. Cam was in one of the jumpers with Sheppard, McKay, and four other silent, heavily-armed, black-clad young men, and they were shadowing Stackhouse and Dex from above, invisible with the cloak engaged. Both Stackhouse and Dex had radios on them, hidden among the folds and fur brims of their clothing, so every word of the conversation down below was transmitted up to them. Before they had left the grassy plain of the planet, Sheppard had handed Cam a radio of his own, nothing but a slender, light ear-piece and a base unit barely the size of his palm which fitted into the left shoulder pocket of his tac vest with room to spare. He could still discern the original Earth design of both pieces, the ear piece might be, in fact, ten years old, but the base unit was obviously reverse-engineered and improved, it's casing dull, dark grey metal instead of black plastic, and its weight still less than he expected. 

Now he listened through the ear piece as Stackhouse tried to convince the guards without much success to allow them to meet Silak face to face. Finally, Stackhouse lost patience.

"All right," Cam heard him growl. "Have it your way. Please give Silak a message, then. Tell him John Sheppard has come to make good on his promise. He has ten minutes to come out and give himself up to our justice, or we'll come in and get him. This is his very last chance. If he comes out, none of the people here will be harmed. If he doesn't, well..." Cam could hear fabric rustle and assumed Stackhouse shrugged. "If he doesn't, we'll take down everyone standing in our way by whatever means necessary. You got all that?"

There was a moment of silence, which dissolved into shouting and weapon's fire, and Sheppard swung the jumper around to follow them as they beat a hasty retreat. They picked them up around a bend in the river valley not far from the entrance to the camp, out of breath, but unhurt.

"So I guess that didn't go so well..." Cam observed, but Stackhouse just shrugged, and Dex twirled his gun around his fingers with astonishing dexterity and a toothy grin. 

"Didn't really think he'd listen to the warning this time," Sheppard replied from the pilot seat, lifting the jumper into the air again, "but we thought we'd give him one more. Call it a gesture of goodwill." The way he looked directly at Cam when he said it made it clear that the goodwill was meant for him and, presumably, Earth, rather than Silak or the Lucian Alliance. 

They returned, invisible, towards the camp again, and Sheppard set the jumper down only metres from the entrance. Cam could see people emerging from tents, weapons in hand, gathering in little clumps to talk and gesticulate. The muffled sound of shouting voices could be heard even inside the jumper. 

"And now?" he asked.

"Now we wait ten minutes and then we move in," Sheppard replied, and tapped his ear piece. Cam really wished he'd taken the time to learn Ancient somewhere along the way, because then at least he would be able to understand the orders Sheppard was obviously giving. But, once he was done, Sheppard swivelled around in the pilot chair to face him. 

"We'll be hitting the camp from several directions, with the jumpers as air support. If you want to, you can stay in here. Commander Stackhouse is going to fly this one, but it should be safe enough if you stay here, since they don't have much that could bring down a jumper. Or you can come out with the rest of us and join us in storming the camp. We can't guarantee your safety on the ground, though."

Cam hesitated. He'd been ordered to follow along on this mission as far as he was allowed, but it'd also been implied he was supposed to observe, not participate. But it went against every instinct he had to sit safely and uselessly in the jumper while someone he considered a friend threw himself into a fight. In the end, instinct won out, and he agreed to join in the ground assault. He just hoped he hadn't made a mistake that would get him shot in the back when he saw the sour look McKay gave him, but he was reasonably sure that Sheppard wouldn't approve of that.

***

Neither hide nor hair could be seen of Silak by the time the ten minutes were up, never mind him leaving the camp and giving himself up, and Sheppard gave the order to start the assault. However, only minutes later, it wasn't so much an assault as a massacre. Cam followed Sheppard into a scene straight out of the nightmares about the Ori wars he still had far too often. Screams and shouts mingled with gun fire and staff blasts, a deafening cacophony of war. Smoke scented the air from a tent burning somewhere off to the left, combined with the dust stirred up by stamping feet to shroud the camp in a golden-grey haze in the sun, which for once shone brightly out of a light blue sky. Sheppard and his people moved with ruthless, deadly efficiency. They fanned out to check the confused lanes between the tents, cut support lines and kicked down poles to collapse the fabric walls, ducked behind crates or barrels to gun any resistance down with short, concentrated bursts of gun fire. Overhead, the jumpers circled, now visible, and took out clusters of Jaffa with single streaks of golden light, drones impacting with deadly accuracy to spray dirt and stones, bits of charred meat and bone, glowing fragments of metal into the air. Within the first minutes, the Lantians took the outer parts of the camp. Only as they got close to the centre did they have to slow their pace down as the fighting grew heavier, closer. Time ceased to form a coherent whole, and Cam couldn't have said how long it lasted until they spilled into the empty space he remembered seeing from above in the centre of the camp. Fractured impressions stayed with him: A young Lantean, a kid who looked to be barely out of his teens, shooting the top off another kid's head with a heavy rifle, blood and brains splashing the canvas of a tent wall. They both looked like they should be going to college, getting illegally drunk and worrying about getting laid. Dex, teeth gleaming in his dark face in a feral grin, snapping a weedy man's neck with one large hand while shooting a Jaffa right in the face with the other. McKay, mouth a grim line, hands cradling an old P90 like he'd been born with it, cutting a man almost in half with a burst of bullets, and stepping over the still-twitching corpse with nothing but an uncaring flick of a glance. Sheppard, eyes like chips of green ice, face like a mask, shooting with both guns, marching forwards, then ducking and rolling, then back on his feet, fast, fluid, every movement sparse and economic... until a dark shape launched itself at him from behind a tent, sending them rolling in the dust in a confused tangle of limbs. Cam started forward, gun out, while his eyes tried to decide what was Sheppard and what he could shoot. There was the flash of a blade, gleaming through the haze, and Sheppard rose out of the dust, blood speckling his face, covering his hand like a red glove, dripping from his fingers and the knife he held. His eyes met Cam's for a moment, and then his hand flashed out, red drops glistening in an arc, and Cam turned to find a man sinking to his knees to his right, fingers coming up to clutch at the hilt protruding from his chest as his own knife fell into the dust. When Cam turned around again, Sheppard was already moving on, sighting around the tent his attacker had come from.

Cam remembered the stare of wide grey eyes, the surprise in them as they went glassy, the blood staining dirty brown leather black as he shot a man.

The only reason Cam followed Sheppard, that he didn't try to stop this, was that he saw the Lantians take prisoners. Here and there, someone threw down their weapons and raised their hands, shouted for mercy, and whenever someone did, the Lantians took the time to cut some rope from the tent lines and quickly tie their captive's hands behind his back before moving on. Sometimes, someone made a break for it, just started running, and the Lantians let them go. They weren't killing mindlessly, and while they enjoyed it far more than Cam was comfortable with, they restrained themselves truly to those that stood in their way. And Sheppard had given Silak another warning, despite the fact that he clearly felt he'd done his duty by warning Silak once, and despite the fact that it had given Silak's people time to prepare for the attack, that this had made this enterprise far more dangerous for the Lantians than a surprise attack would have been, Sheppard had stood by the ten minutes he had promised. Cam still didn't approve, but it was just enough, just, to make him able to follow his orders like a good soldier and not interfere. 

Eventually, it was over. The gunfire died down, the dust started settling. The sun had barely moved in the sky and now shone down brightly on the wide flat area in the centre of the camp. Lantian soldiers were herding prisoners there from all sides, emerging from around the tents that still ringed the empty ground. A heap of rubble and broken walls rose towards the back, an enormous cloud of dust still hanging around it. Several drones must have impacted with the prison where Sheppard and Cam had been held. Cam couldn't say that he felt bad about the way the Lantians had vented their wrath on _that_. 

Sheppard stood near where the main thoroughfare of the camp opened into the central plaza, silent, arms crossed over his chest. Cam found himself caught in his entourage, Dex and McKay standing close behind Sheppard's right and left shoulder, respectively, Cam and the four young men who had made up the rest of the jumper's complement in a loose clump behind. They watched as the prisoners were lead into the plaza and pushed to their knees in orderly rows. Most of them were regular Lucian Alliance members, with very few Jaffa among them. The Jaffa in the camp might be mercenaries, but it seemed they were still steeped enough in their warrior culture that they preferred death over surrender. 

The Lantians arrayed themselves in a wide circle around the circumference of the plaza, or left in groups of two or three to head back out into the camp. The jumpers still circled above, filling the air with the soft hum of their engines now that the shooting and screaming had stopped. It was so quiet that Cam would have suspected that he'd gone deaf if not for the sound of the jumpers and the far-away trilling of some alien animal that drifted down from the wooded slopes of the hills beyond the camp. 

Finally, two Lantians dragged a familiar figure in front of Sheppard. Silak's eyes were spitting rage, and he was struggling against the grip they had on his arms, hands apparently tied behind his back, his feet carving grooves in the dusty ground as he tried to dig his heels in. They came to a shuffling stop in front of Sheppard. One of the guards held out the hand not clutching Silak's arm and revealed a slender golden clasp on it, shaped a bit like a broad hairpin. Sheppard's expressionless face melted into mild surprise, and he picked it up to inspect it for a moment. Then, his lips curling into a slight smile, he slipped it into its place on his collar. The smile vanished as he turned to Silak.

"Hi. Remember me?" The only response he got was a furious look. Silak's narrow jaw sported a dark bruise underneath patchy stubble, and a small cut at his hairline had made blood run into his left eyebrow and down beside his eye. 

Sheppard lifted his gaze from Silak's face to sweep the arrayed prisoners with a cool look. 

"I am John Sheppard, Supreme Commander of the United Armed Forces of the Confederation of Sentient Species of the Pegasus Galaxy." He spoke clearly, loud enough to be heard by everyone, but without shouting. "We are only guests in this galaxy, and are not looking for conflict with any of its people. However, this man," he inclined his head towards Silak, "has had me kidnapped and tortured because of a conflict the Lucian Alliance has with the Tau'ri, as at least some of you, if not all of you, will know. As required by our law I have warned Silak that proceeding with my kidnapping would result in his death by my hands or those of my people, as well as the death of all those under his command. Also as required, I gave him the chance to let me and my fellow prisoner, Colonel Mitchell, go without further consequences. Today, I gave him another chance to give himself up to me and so prevent any harm to anyone else here. He has chosen to ignore both warnings. I am within my rights to kill everyone here." Cam saw more than one panicked glance, more than one pair of wide eyes. 

"However," Sheppard continued, "as a demonstration of the Confederation's goodwill to the Milky Way galaxy and its people, I will consider Silak's death alone sufficient reparation."

He turned back to Silak, one eyebrow raised. "Any last words?"

Silak's eyes narrowed, lips drawing back from his teeth in a snarl. 

"You have no right!" he hissed. "Let me go! The Lucian Alliance will _destroy_ you!" He turned his head to look at Cam. "Just as we will destroy the Tau'ri! You think you're so great because you defeated Anubis, but mark my words, we will send you back to your puny little planet with your tails between your legs! You and your self-righteous, overbearing meddling! You always think everyone has to play by _your_ rules, that you get to convert everyone to your way of thinking, you get to decide what's wrong and what is right and who lives and who dies! You're just the same as the Goa'uld, just the same as the Ori!" His voice rose in a shout, and Cam took half a step back, feeling like he'd been physically slapped by the vicious tirade. Then anger rose, hot and indignant. This, after all they had been through, all they had done, all the people they had lost, and not just for the sake of their own planet, not just for Earth and on Earth, but for the entire galaxy...!

"We've never set ourselves up as gods, to be worshipped!" he retorted heatedly. "We've never conquered and enslaved other worlds! We've always encouraged people to find their own way, their own beliefs, and we've never killed someone just because they didn't agree with us!"

"Oh, is that so?" Silak snarled back, struggling in the grip of the guards as if he wanted to strangle Cam with his bare hands. "You've never killed anyone because they decided to live their life in a way that you consider 'criminal'? You've never killed anyone for thinking differently about right and wrong than you did? You lie, Colonel Mitchell! I have seen you kill a man for protecting what was rightfully his. You killed my father because you decided that you did not like the power and wealth of Kassa in the hands of the Lucian Alliance! And you might not have seen the child hiding behind the crates while you stood over him with your gun, you might not even remember what he looked like, just another one of your victims, but I have never forgotten _you_ , and I have sworn my own oath of revenge!" He turned to Sheppard while Cam blinked, and reeled, feeling like the ground had been pulled from underneath his feet. 

"You have proven that you understand revenge, Sheppard. Kill me if you must, but let me have the revenge I promised! You are bound to it by your own law!"

Cam looked at Sheppard, to find his face hard and cold. 

He snorted. "Oh, please. I don't give a fuck about your sob-story. And you don't know shit about my laws! Did you warn Mitchell about the consequences of his actions? Did you give him a chance to back away? I don't think so. Therefore, you aren't entitled to anything under my law, even if you'd signed the Founding Charter and so could claim any rights under it. And I don't care about the grievances the Lucian Alliance and the Tau'ri have with each other. All I care about is that you kidnapped me, and tortured me. All I care about is the pain that you and your people inflicted on _me_ , when I'd never done anything to warrant it." Sheppard leaned forward, his eyes holding Silak's, cold and unflinching. "Losing your father doesn't give you the right to hurt whoever you please," he murmured, his tone dark and vicious despite the deceptive softness. Then he leaned back again.

"Request denied. Anything else? No?"

He nodded towards the guards, and stepped around them so that the prisoners could see both him and Silak as the guards dragged him in a quarter circle. Silak was twisting and snarling, fighting them for every inch, screaming obscenities and yelling at his men to attack, to rise, to do _something_. The guards forced him to his knees in front of Sheppard, hands pressing on his shoulders, boot tips nudging into the back of his knees. 

Cam felt sick.

Sheppard uncrossed his arms and held a hand out wordlessly into Dex's general direction, his eyes never leaving the face of the man he was about to kill. 

Dex reached behind his back and drew his sword, swirled it around and slapped the hilt into Sheppard's outstretched palm. 

Sheppard rotated his wrist twice, fingers finding the best grip on the hilt, right leg moving back half a step, his knees bending ever so slightly. He nodded once at the guards. 

The guards stepped back, Silak surged to his feet and Sheppard swung, hard, fast, the blade flashing in the sunlight. 

The air smelled of dust and smoke. The unknown alien animal was still calling in the forest, a uniform cadence of trills over and over again. 

Blood arced into the air, black against the sun and sky. Sheppard stayed as he was for a fraction of a second, body one smooth line from his left heel in the back to the tip of the blade in his right hand, pointing up at the sky, as he regained his balance after the strike. Silak's body tumbled sideways, blood gushing out of the stump of his neck in great, heaving waves with the last beats of his heart while his head rolled through the dirt like some sort of obscene ball. Sheppard pulled himself upright again and flicked the sword with a practised little twist of his wrist to shake the worst of the blood from the blade before he held it out to Dex, again without looking at the man, eyes resting on the body and head at his feet.

Cam's knees were distinctly shaky and he had to swallow against the bile in his throat. 

Sheppard stooped to pick the head up out of the dirt by the hair, holding it aloft to the prisoners, unfazed by the threads of blood trailing down into the dirt before his boots.

"Remember this!" he called, voice strong, carrying. "We are the Confederation, and we don't threaten idly! If you mess with us, we will hunt you down, and we _will_ kill you. Today, we've been generous. So go, go and tell everyone you meet, tell whoever you work for what happened here today. We're not the Tau'ri, with all their rules and scruples, and we're not farmers you can bully with your guns. We won't take aggression against us lying down, and we don't care about your reasons. If you hurt us, we hurt you back with interest, and if we say we'll kill you, we will. It's that simple."

He opened his fingers and dropped the head, then turned sharply on his heel and started stalking down the main path with one sharp gesture of his right hand over his shoulder, which Cam took to mean "we're moving out" as Dex and McKay fell in behind him at once, and all the guards around the plaza peeled off from their positions in flawless unison. 

Cam followed as well after one last look at Silak's corpse, body and head separated by several feet, blood all over the place in large dark smears, soaking into the dirt.

***


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thank you for everyone who's left comments- I do read and appreciate them all, even if I don't always get around to reply to every one! Also, apologies for the missed update, the holidays turned out rather busier than I'd expected...

There was little in the way of conversation on the way back, neither in the jumper nor back on board the Cyrinius. The Lantians who'd taken part in the mission seemed grim but satisfied, especially once it was established that they'd suffered no fatalities. Several people would have to spend some time in the infirmary, and medical teams rushed forwards as soon as they'd set down in the hangar of the Cyrinius, but the Lantians seemed to consider a few cuts, broken bones and gunshot wounds a reasonable price to pay for avenging their Commander's treatment. 

Cam didn't know what to think. He found this bloodthirsty loyalty of the Lantians towards Sheppard frightening. He remembered what Daniel had said about how Sheppard was central to their organisation, how he was like royalty, and he saw it in the way attention always oriented on Sheppard when he stepped into a room, how the eyes of his soldiers followed the man. There was no saluting, no straightening of postures, no words, not even nods of greeting or acknowledgement, none of the signs of hierarchy and respect he was accustomed to. And yet, his instincts told him that every soldier, no matter how insolently he was lounging against a wall or how deeply he was in conversation with someone else, was ready to jump at Sheppard's order, would unhesitatingly obey. 

And he couldn't work out how much Silak's execution bothered him. He didn't, couldn't, approve, and the sheer cold-bloodedness of it made his skin crawl, but on the other hand... The Lantians hadn't been cruel, hadn't killed anyone who hadn't attacked first. They hadn't been cruel, just ruthless. Efficient and pitiless and ruthless in killing their enemies. Maybe that was what disturbed him so much. He had felt the tension in the atmosphere, the rage and the anticipation of violence, had seen in their eyes, in their faces how they enjoyed the fighting, the killing: Sheppard's icy eyes, Dex's feral glee, McKay's grim determination. They had enjoyed their revenge, had gloried in the violence in a way that modern Western society on Earth spent all your lifetime telling you you shouldn't, that that way lay murder, barbarity, war and death and pain and everything bad humans did to each other. And he saw none of the requisite guilt in the Lantians now that it was over. He was struggling with guilt for merely witnessing this display of primal vengefulness, and the Lantians seemed perfectly comfortable with their actions. At the same time, there had been no loss of control, no explosions of emotion. _That_ , absurdly, he could've understood far better, could've explained and forgiven far easier. But nothing that happened today had happened in the heat of the moment. The violence, the blood lust, was boiling under the surface, but it was released with discipline, with efficiency, in strictly-controlled bursts, directed at sharply delineated targets. It was... alien. 

Yes. Alien. An expression of a culture he couldn't understand, because he was missing the right frame of reference, of shared history. And it was made all the more disorienting by the fact that ten years ago, these people had operated within the same frame of reference he did. He felt that he _should_ understand them, but he _didn't_. 

He was so not looking forward to the debriefing.

***

John shoved Rodney up against the wall next to the door as it slid closed behind them, and kissed him, hard, their teeth clicking together, their lips probably bruising each other. Stackhouse was ferrying Mitchell back to Earth, they were all safe, and Silak was _dead_.

John pressed himself even closer, his fingers clutching at Rodney's shirt, digging into flesh. He was still riding the adrenaline high from the kill, dragged out by the need to fly the ship back to Earth, keep an eye on Cam and make sure all the wounded were going to be okay. But now everything was seen to, and he needed, _needed_ , to burn off the nervous energy coiling in his gut, the blood lust and the fear and the rage and the relief. 

Rodney was kissing him back, large hands gripping the back of his head, hot and sweaty, holding him close and tilting John's head at the right angle for him to thrust his tongue deep into John's mouth. John's lower lip got caught between their teeth for a moment, and he felt it split with a twinge of pain and the faint taste of blood. He moaned, then pushed himself off, leaving strands of hair in Rodney's fingers as he ripped his head away. Rodney had time to blink at him once in confusion before John threw himself on his knees, his fingers tugging none too gently at the fastenings of Rodney's pants. A breathless moan told him that Rodney got the idea, and then his fingers were helping John clumsily to shove his pants down towards his knees. John promptly forgot about them as soon as they were out of the way and he had access to Rodney's cock. He fisted it once, twice, then leaned forward and closed his lips around it. He wrestled down the urge to bite and sucked as hard as he could, instead, going farther with every bob of his head. Rodney's hands were back in his hair, clenching and digging into his scalp, and he was panting and moaning, broken half-words spilling from his lips, "fuck" and "God!" and " _John_!" and more, and it was driving John completely insane. He was so hard it hurt. He sucked and relaxed, swallowed, and spared a thought to congratulate himself again on putting in the effort to learn how to deep-throat at the keening whine Rodney made. His hand wriggled into his own pants as he did his best to make Rodney make that noise again. He didn't really have room to properly jerk himself off, but that didn't really matter. With his face pressed into Rodney's groin, his taste and smell, touch and sound all around him, with the small jerks of his hips with which Rodney fucked his mouth, which he couldn't quite suppress and John made no move to stop, he was so close that it didn't take more than the touch of his own fingers and he was coming, retaining just enough brain-power to keep his teeth the hell away from Rodney's cock. 

He barely had time to scrape his brain cells back together, his own come still scalding hot on his fingers when Rodney said, quite clearly: "Oh my _God_!" and came down John's throat, arching off the wall. This time, John braced a hand against Rodney's hip to keep his larynx intact against the uncontrollable shudders running through Rodney's body. 

He pulled back once Rodney was done, sat back on his heels, and rubbed away the wetness trickling down his chin. He frowned at the small red streak left on the back of his hand, and then remembered the cut in his lip. A prod with his tongue told him it was nothing, just a small nick. 

He looked up as Rodney came sliding down the wall, his legs sprawled out in front of him, framing John where he knelt on the floor. Rodney's eyes were fixed on his mouth and he reached out a hand. John crawled over, and they kissed again, slow this time, Rodney's tongue sweeping through his mouth to lick at the taste of come and blood. 

When they pulled apart again, Rodney reached out to touch the cut in John's lip with a gentle fingertip. 

"Sorry," he mumbled, looking awkward and almost shy. John just shrugged and buried his face in Rodney's shoulder.

"'S nothing." Lethargy was swamping his senses, weighing his eyelids shut, made his limbs loose. He was asleep in Rodney's lap before he knew it, his last sensation that of arms wrapping around his middle to keep him in place.

***

Rodney watched the man sleeping in his arms for a long while, the gentle rise and fall of his back, the relaxed line of his shoulders. He looked down at the mess of short black hair under his chin, whole sections sticking out every which way, even worse than usual because of how Rodney had buried his hands in it. The pretty face was invisible from this angle, buried in his shoulder, and that mouth... that mouth that smirked at him, that teased him, that kissed him and that had just sucked him off, that mouth that was far too beautiful for anyone's good.... how could he ever resist that mouth? Thinking about it alone was enough to make a thread of heat curl through his belly, despite the fact that he'd just come, and he wasn't twenty any more. He needed a little time for recovery, thank you very much.

He shifted a little, not actually very comfortable. He was also too old to be sitting on the hard floor for indeterminate periods of time, and Sheppard proved once more that for such a bony bastard, he was surprisingly heavy. Especially when he was passed out cold on Rodney's shoulder. How the man could sleep in this position, legs bent at the knees on the floor, arms hanging loose, was a mystery to Rodney. But... he didn't have the heart to wake him. At least not quite yet. He shifted his arms, wrapped his left more firmly around John's back so he could reach up with the other and smooth it through that ridiculous mess of hair, trying to repair some of the damage he'd done before. 

How could he wake John when he was demonstrating so much trust, when he was so uncharacteristically relaxed? It was an honour Rodney wasn't sure he deserved, but which he enjoyed so much it almost made him feel guilty. Besides, considering the mind-blowing orgasm John had just graced him with, he supposed he should indulge him a little. God, when he'd looked down and realized John was _coming_ , coming from nothing but sucking him off and his own hand down his pants... could there be anything hotter? 

So he hugged John to him, and stroked his hair, and let him sleep far past the point where his back and ass complained about the hard floor. Only when it became actively painful to stay in one position for any longer did he shake John awake into enough coherency to steer him across the room to the bed. John mumbled something indistinct, then pitched face forward into the pillow. Rodney sighed, dragged off John's boots and jacket, tugged and shoved until the man was lying down properly, and then struggled out of his own clothes to join John in oblivion. He had no idea what time it was, and neither did he care. The rest of the world could just wait until after he'd taken a nap. And possibly until after he'd fucked John when he woke up again. Just to make sure beyond the shadow of a doubt that the man was there, and alive, and whole, and none the worse for what Silak had done to him apart from a few new scars. Yeah, Rodney liked that plan, and he fell asleep with a satisfied smile on his face.

***

Relations between the Atlantians and the SGC were… awkward, to say the least, in the days after their return. Sheppard had offered again to leave, and there was more than one general who wanted to take them up on it. However, the President and his closest advisers, as well as the IOA, were still determined to get their hands on the technology and information the Atlantians had at their disposal– for that matter, so did Daniel. The thought of the Atlantians leaving with all their knowledge about the Ancients, with whatever they'd extracted from Atlantis' database in the past ten years… it almost physically hurt. At least he was being consulted now. Not that he relished the amount of meetings involved, but the Atlantians' revenge mission had, it seemed, at last succeeded in bringing home the fact that they were dealing with an alien culture. Whether it was the way they'd gone about it, or whether it was the simple fact that they'd refused any input by the U.S. government and the IOA, it made Daniel's life a lot easier.

Which wasn't to say that it was _easy_. 

“You need us, Sheppard,” Shen Xiaoyi, there to represent the IOA, told Sheppard when they eventually managed to arrange a meeting at the SGC four days after the Atlantian's return. The Atlantians had even conceded to come unarmed.

Sheppard smiled, and it wasn't entirely friendly. “Ah, but thing is, we don't. Oh, we needed you– nine years ago, when the Wraith came to bomb us off the face of the planet. We needed you– eight years ago, when we were down a third of our members and starving to death. Oh, we needed help four years ago when we were facing the biggest battle since the days of the Ancients, with three worlds and ten thousand people at stake and nothing in our hands except the empty shells of six barely space-worthy ships. Today? Today we don't need you.”

Shen was taken aback, but others protested, while Daniel wondered what would've happened if they'd ever managed to find that ZPM. 

It was Sheppard himself, in the end, who suggested a compromise after the argument'd gone in useless circles for a while. 

“Look,” he said, leaning forwards with his arms crossed on the table, “I get it, you're a little freaked out.” He smirked when Jack scowled like he wanted to protest. “And I can't say I blame you. But fact is, trade relations need mutual trust. And trust needs knowledge. Now, we know you pretty well. But you don't know us, not anymore, and that's the problem. So from where I'm standing, the solution seems obvious: Before you decide whether or not you want to get into bed with us, you need to get to know us again– date us for a bit, so to speak.” He grinned, while McKay made a disparaging noise under his breath. 

Daniel blinked a little at that particular turn of phrase, but Sheppard's reasoning was solid enough. Unlike the wariness being projected by Jack and General Landry, Sheppard seemed more relaxed than Daniel'd ever seen him in the past month and a half. Sure, Sheppard always wore a laconic demeanour like an armour, but the loose line of his shoulders, the casual sprawl in his chair, rang truer now, even with a healing cut in his bottom lip to show for the fight he'd been in.

“So what're you suggesting?” Jack drawled, eyebrows raised quizzically. He'd kept out of the argument so far, had leaned back in his chair and observed, not unlike Daniel himself. Now he sat forward, mirroring Sheppard's posture. 

“Send someone with us,” Sheppard answered. “An ambassador of sorts, someone who can get to know us, give you a perspective you trust.”

Daniel felt the embarrassing urge to raise his hand and bounce up and down, shout “Me, me, me!” like an over-eager undergrad. 

“With the charged ZPM, you can dial in once a month or so to get a report, and if you decide you like what you hear, we can talk business,” Sheppard continued. 

“What if we don't like what we hear?” Jack asked idly. 

Sheppard shrugged, smiled wryly. “It'd be a gesture of good faith on your part, clearly. McKay'll be working on the ZPM charging tech, but it'll take a little while to recreate, make sure it's safe and such. ETA is something like three months. Obviously, it'd be rather difficult to get whoever you send back to you before then.”

“Well, unless you use the ZPM to dial in, then keep the wormhole going with some naquadah generators, and send someone through the gate with the ZPM so we can plug it in on our side,” McKay added snidely. 

Which would mean they'd have to trust the Atlantians to give them back their people and a working ZPM– which wasn't exactly likely if, for some reason, they decided not to pursue relations with Atlantis. 

If anyone was going to ask Daniel, he'd say the risks were worth it. _Atlantis_. For ten years, he'd wondered what it was like. Atlantis was one of the big what-ifs of his life. Even being lost in Pegasus… he'd wondered whether it would've been worth it. Seeing Sheppard and McKay now, knowing they'd survived– he thought it would've been worth it. 

“And who would this ambassador be?” Landry rumbled. 

“Whoever you decide on will be welcome, but if you're asking for suggestions from our side, I'd say Mitchell.” Sheppard's eyes met Daniel's across the table. “I'm aware that you'd probably be the best qualified, Dr Jackson, and if you're selected, we'd be more than happy to have you. However.” He glanced around the table. “Fact is, we live in a war zone. As much as I'd like to, we can _not_ guarantee the safety of anyone you send with us. Shit happens, especially in Pegasus. And you, Dr Jackson,” he addressed Daniel directly again, “you're the foremost expert on alien contact on this planet. You speak dozens of languages, you have invaluable knowledge about histories and cultures. And, yes, I'm aware you're as much a veteran on the front lines as anyone, but you're an invaluable resource to your world. Now, I'm not saying Mitchell's expendable, or less qualified than you are, in his own field– but he's _more_ expendable. When it comes to risking the life of a soldier or a scientist, we'll pick the soldier.”

Unfortunately, Daniel was sure Jack'd agree with Sheppard's reasoning. 

“And while we're at it,” Sheppard added, “anyone who goes will need to be willing to undergo combat training, if they don't have it already. It'd also be handy if they were willing to take the ATA gene therapy– not mandatory, but life in Atlantis is more convenient if you're ATA positive to some degree.”

Of course, that only made Daniel want to go more– it was one of the great injustices of life, he felt, that Jack was the one with ATA gene when Daniel was the one with the interest in all things ancient and Ancient.

***

In the end, the meeting concluded satisfactorily for everyone: There was a lot of haggling about minutiae, but Sheppard's suggestion was adopted. The whole thing would need to be written into contract form, of course, and okayed by the higher ups, and they'd need to schedule a call to Atlantis to get Weir's confirmation, but Sheppard seemed confident Weir was going to agree to the terms. Of course, every party concerned would try to push their own candidate, and Daniel was certainly going to submit his application (he thought he could probably get the IOA on his side). He wasn't too optimistic, though. Jack'd never been keen to let him out of his sight to another galaxy, and while he didn't say as much, Daniel thought he'd back Sheppard's play for Cam. It wasn't an unreasonable suggestion– Sheppard and Cam had already bonded, had already established a rapport, and Cam'd already ended up go-between for the SGC and the Atlantians. He was trusted by both sides, and he was easy-going and non-threatening, in good standing with pretty much everyone concerned. Likely, Daniel's only chance would be if Cam refused the assignment. Considering how Sheppard emphasized how this mission wouldn't be without its dangers… While Cam had no wife or children, or any romantic ties that Daniel was aware of, he did have his parents and a host of aunts and uncles and cousins he was close to, so there was a possibility he might prefer to stick closer to home. None of them were as young as they used to be, and Daniel'd like to believe that maybe they'd gotten a little less reckless, too. On the other hand, Cam was still a pilot, and while none of them were SG-1 anymore, none of them had retired, either, and it wasn't like Daniel was dissuaded by the potential danger. Of course, he had a special interest in Atlantis (he'd _discovered_ it, after all!). Well, he was going to give it his best shot, and in the interest of that, he had some IOA contacts to cultivate.

***


	19. Chapter 19

“Hello?” Jeannie said distractedly into the phone she'd stuck between her ear and shoulder while she juggled the mess of school things Maddie had left on the dining table after doing her homework. Then she nearly dropped everything, including the phone, when she heard the voice at the other end of the line. “Mer?! What… Why are you…?”

“You made me promise to come by!” he protested. “I had to know if you were home, didn't I? I mean, sure we have spaceships, but that doesn't mean I wanted to waste a trip!”

“Yes, no, it's fine!” she said hastily, set her armload of folders and books and notepads back onto the table in a heap. “It's just… Why are you on the _phone_?”

“Well, you don't have a radio,” he told her condescendingly. “And the SGC has phones. I mean, I'm on the Cyrinius, we're borrowing their lines… How else would I reach you?”

That was all true enough, but… the normalcy of being on the _phone_ with her brother, returned from the dead and on a _spaceship_ , was just too weird. “How do you even know my number?” Had she ever given him this number? No, they'd gotten a new one when they switched providers a few years ago… 

“You're in the phone book.” She could _hear_ his eyes rolling. “Also, the SGC is ridiculously well-connected, obviously they don't respect other people's privacy, they could find out. Not that they did. Like I said, phone book. The SGC has internet, too.”

“Mer!” she snapped to shut up his babbling. “Fine, yes, obviously, I'm just… You're on a _spaceship_.”

“Yes, I am,” he agreed. “So, do you have time?”

“What, like _now_?” 

“Well, it'll take me a bit to fly down. So, say twenty minutes?”

She took a deep breath. The house needed tidying, and there was dinner to start, and she really hadn't expected this today, but… it was _Mer_ , and Maddie and Kaleb wouldn't be back for another hour or so, and… “Yes,” she agreed. “Yes, I have time.”

“Great. I'll see you then,” Mer replied, and… hung up. She blinked at the phone for a moment, then took another deep breath, and gathered Maddie's things back up to put them in her room. She should probably start some coffee, too. Good thing she still had some nanaimo bars in the fridge, seeing as how Mer used to love those.

***

It really didn't take Mer more than twenty minutes to park his invisible spaceship, this time behind the house, for which Jeannie was grateful, because she really wouldn't know what to tell the neighbours. Not that Mer stomping up to her back door in his black leather outfit would be any easier to explain, and she certainly hoped no one'd seen him appear out of nowhere.

There was an awkward moment when she let him in the back door, and then, to her surprise, he leaned in and hugged her– with no apology, no flailing. He was warm and solid under the leather, and for a moment, just a moment, she allowed herself to cling to him a little. Then she pushed off, forced a smile, waved him inside. All awkwardness was forgotten, however, the moment he saw the cookies on the table. 

“Oh my God! Are those nanaimo bars?!” 

Jeannie found herself smiling as she ushered him to take a seat. He moaned as he bit into the first one. 

“You know, turns out I really didn't miss Earth food as much as I thought I did, but these are still amazing. Where'd you get them?”

She rolled her eyes at him. “I made them, Mer.”

He blinked at her, cookie bar half-way to his mouth, chocolate smudged on one corner of his lips. “You… _made_ them? You make cookies?”

“Yes, I do,” she told him tartly. “It's not that hard.”

“Well, no, of course not, just, you'd think you'd have better things to do with your time than something like...” He waved the hand with the cookie, and she narrowed her eyes, waiting for the insult. “Well, not that there's anything wrong with making cookies,” he continued hastily. “Or, you know, raising children, I guess someone has to do it, and at least you're smart enough to make sure she gets a proper education and all, but seriously, couldn't your… Kaleb do it, I mean, English major, surely what you could do's more important than whatever he does.”

Jeannie's torn between offence and amusement. “Was that actually supposed to be a compliment?”  
Mer gave her that vaguely confused look she knew so well. “No, I just...”

“Look,” she interrupted, “let's just… not talk about my life choices, okay? I mean, I guess it's an improvement that you admit that there's _something_ worthwhile about raising kids, but this is how we got into it last time, so let's not repeat that, okay?”

“Yeah, fine, fine,” he answered, then scrutinized her for a moment. “But are you… happy?”

It was her turn to blink, and then she found herself smiling helplessly, as she realized that in his usual socially awkward and entitled way, Mer'd been worried for her. And of course the only way he could express that was by belittling her choices and insulting the man she loved. 

“Yeah, Mer, yeah, I'm happy.”

He nodded decisively. “Fine, then,” and returned to his cookies. 

She asked him how the past two weeks had been since she'd last seen him, and she wasn't sure what she expected– it's the thing you do, to make conversation, but… But instead of whatever passes for normal when you've been in another galaxy and live on a spaceship, he told her how Sheppard was kidnapped by alien criminals from outer space. And he said things like “so of course he got tortured for _Earth_ 's stupid information,” and “I don't even know why I bother, _of course_ he broke himself out and walked through a forest for three days without food or water before I could find him– mind you, I _would_ have, I was almost there!” and “Anyway, so he was in the infirmary for a bit, and Lam was _this_ close to chaining him to his bed, not that that ever works, and he's fine and we went and had a word with the Lucian Alliance and I don't think they're gonna bother us again.”

The grim, dark satisfaction on his face when he said they “had a word with” the kidnappers chased a chill up her spine. And maybe she should've, but she didn't ask for clarification. 

Instead she raised her eyebrows at him. “So, you and Sheppard...”

Mer looked at her blankly, coffee mug halfway to his mouth. She waited encouragingly for him to take the obvious lead, even made a “go on” motion with her own mug, but Mer's forehead just furrowed in confusion, like he genuinely didn't get what she was asking. And maybe he didn't. “I saw him kiss you back on the ship,” she told him, exasperated. 

“Uh.” Mer blinked, blushed a little, tips of his ears staining red, made a vague motion with his mug. “Oh. That. Yeah.” He shrugged, like that entire non-answer made anything clear. 

“So… he's your boyfriend?” Jeannie asked, because apparently Mer wasn't going to make this easy. 

He blinked at her like she'd grown another head, then spluttered. “What?! No!” He barked a short laugh. “What are you…? No. Just, no.” He grimaced.

“But...” It was her turn to frown in confusion. “So why did he kiss you? I mean...” Sure, it'd been at the tail end of a space battle and everything, but… you still didn't just kiss a guy, surely? And Mer hadn't exactly looked like it was unexpected. 

“He's…” Mer flailed a little. “Look, it's not like that, he's my best friend, okay? And, sure, things are different in Pegasus, and you get kind of used to it, I guess, and it's been, well, we live in a war zone, you realize, so yes, Sheppard and I have sex, but it's not like I'm going to _marry_ the man, Ancestors beware, do you know what an _asshole_ he is?!”

Jeannie blinked, then blinked again as she worked her way through that half-coherent rant. Somehow, she'd forgotten that Mer _did_ that. “Uh, he… seemed nice?” she offered, and earned herself a dramatic eye roll. 

“Oh, yes, of course he did, he's all charm and pretty and what not if you don't know him, but _trust_ me: Not only is he a suicidal _idiot_ with less self-preservation instincts than God gave a brain-dead lemming, he's also far too fond of shooting people and, let's not forget, will sleep with anything that holds still long enough.”

“Didn't you say he was your friend?” Jeannie enquired dryly. 

“Well,” Mer allowed, “he'll also walk into a Wraith hive for you three hours after he's met you. Like I said, no self-preservation. You turn your back for a _minute_ and it's 'So long, Rodney' and he goes off to fly suicide missions.” 

Jeannie got the distinct impression that there was so much more to it than Mer was saying– and knowing Mer, he might not even be aware of it himself.

“Alright,” she conceded, “so he's not your boyfriend.”

“Ancestors, no.” Mer shuddered dramatically. Then he took a deep breath, shifted a little in his chair, moved his mug back and forth across the table. “But. Um. On a slightly related note, there's someone I'd like you to meet. If you want, I mean, you don't _have_ to, but since we're here and all...”

“Someone…?” Jeannie frowned, confused. Her first thought was that maybe he had a girlfriend, but, no, he'd said he was sleeping with Sheppard (and that… she hadn't even known he was interested in men) even if he denied that they were a couple, so…

“Um. My daughter,” Mer said. “Well, I have two. Well, actually I have three, but Namira is back in Pegasus, so you can't meet her.”

Jeannie stared at him for a long moment. “You… you have a kid… kids?”

Mer narrowed his eyes. “Well, yes, as a matter of fact, I do. Believe it or not, women in Pegasus actually do appreciate the fact that I'm a genius and that my genes ought to be passed on.”

“No, I just, I mean...” Jeannie waved a hand. “Just. Wow.” She remembered how he'd been so much less awkward with Maddie than she'd expected, and… yeah, that'd explain it. 

Mer huffed a little. “Yes. Well. Since we're here, and I mean, they're your nieces, too…”

“I'd love to meet them,” Jeannie assured him hastily. And she really would. She had _nieces_! In another galaxy!

Mer nodded brusquely. “Okay, good. Just… Keep it to yourself, okay? I mean, we're apparently doing the whole diplomatic relations thing with Earth and all, but they still don't need to know right this minute that we have kids with us.”

Jeannie frowned. “What? Why?”

Mer shrugged. “Well. I'm pretty sure if they figured they could take the Cyrinius, they would've tried already, but still.”

“You… What, you think they'd _attack_ you? Didn't you… didn't you come here to help? Aren't we on the same side?”

Rodney waved a hand. “Well, the Wraith are gone for the time being. And we have all this great technology sitting there– you think they _wouldn't_ try and take it without paying for it if they could? Come on, you're not that naive, we're talking about the U.S. government and the whole military-industrial complex here! Not to mention Russia and China. Like anyone's gotten less greedy and power-hungry in the last ten years! And now that we've declared independence from that whole lot, you really think they'd let us get away from their control if we didn't have a stick big enough to counter anything they could throw at us? They'd have us arrested and vanishing into some dark hole never to be seen again. So, no, I don't want these people to know my children are on board that ship.”

“You… Wait, you declared independence?” 

Mer blinked, thrown out of his cynical rant. “Uh. Yes? Didn't I mention that?”

Jeannie rolled her eyes at him. “No, you didn't!” Then she studied him. “Mer… What does that mean? Why… Don't you want to come home?”

He dropped his eyes to his mug, rolled it between his palms, then looked up again. “This isn't home,” he said, more quietly and seriously than she was used to from him. “It's… They abandoned us. Sure, we all knew going that it could very well be a one-way trip– it wasn't like we could dial the gate more than once with our power reserves, so we really didn't know more than that atmosphere and temperature on the other side were survivable when we went. But… We were still _hoping_ we could re-establish contact, you know. And it never happened. And maybe it's no one's fault, but I don't believe for a _second_ that we were still a priority, that they didn't just close the files when it was years, that the people in charge didn't look at the numbers and figure it wasn't worth the trouble to make us a priority. So, no– from where I'm standing we don't owe Earth anything more than what we did, which was risk all our lives and the ship to get here, and we did, and now we're going home.”

“But… why?!” Jeannie had to ask. “Mer, it's… it sounds so dangerous! You could _die_!”

Mer blew out a breath, ran a hand over his hair, and nodded. “Yeah. Yeah, we could die. But, Jeannie, it's _important_. You can't… you can't imagine it! The technology, thousands, _millions_ of years of technology that we've barely scratched the surface of! The understanding the Ancients had of physics, of everything, I mean, I don't like the fuckers, but the knowledge they collected, it's all there in the database, we just can't understand most of it, not yet, and… And the people! Atlantis is… it's not just a city, it's a symbol, and we _founded_ the Confederation, we can't just _leave_! That's what the Ancients did, you know, kicked off human evolution here, there, and everywhere in the fucking galaxy and then they accidentally made the Wraith, and then, whoops, sure they fought them for a long time, but they lost and they ran away, like they do, and they left all those humans behind to be eaten by the Wraith for tens of thousands of years. And we can't do the same! And we're _winning_ , for the first time since they evolved the Wraith are actually losing territory, and no, it probably won't be over in our lifetime, but… but we _can't_ leave!”

Jeannie stared at her brother, overwhelmed, and realized that this man… this man was possibly the best version of himself he could be. Mer as she'd known him had been, if not selfish then at least lost in his own head, his world consisting of numbers and formulae and theories. But it looked like he'd finally found a place where the greater good wasn't some abstract pursuit that'd get him recognition and prices, but where he'd learned to value people, personally, as well. And he had _family_ , and friends, and somewhere along the way he'd discovered a wealth of courage that let him fly spaceships into battle against aliens. 

“Yeah,” she said, “yeah, okay.”

“Uh… okay?” he asked, like he'd expected her to keep arguing. 

She smiled at him. “Yeah, Mer, okay. Maybe I haven't seen it and can't really imagine it, but I believe you when you say it's worth it.”

He stared at her for a moment longer, then nodded brusquely and drained his coffee. 

“So,” she said brightly, “when do I get to meet my nieces?”

***

“General,” Cam greeted Landry seated behind his desk, then nodded at O'Neill, who was sprawled unceremoniously into one of the chairs in front of it, playing with a baseball. “General.”

“Colonel,” Landry greeted back, while O'Neill caught the ball again and waved towards the other chair. 

“Mitchell. Have a seat.”

Cam did, looked between them. 

Landry sighed a little, rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Colonel, we wanted to talk to you about a potential assignment. If you're interested. I want you to understand that this is not in the least mandatory. It'll be entirely your choice on whether you take it or not–”

“How'd you feel about vacationing in Atlantis for a few months?” O'Neill interrupted blithely and earned himself a frown from Landry that he, of course, entirely ignored. 

“Uh,” Cam said. “Atlantis?” Had he heard that right? 

O'Neill nodded. “Yep. City of the Ancients in the Pegasus galaxy, that one.”

“It's been decided that before we pursue trade relations with Atlantis, we will send someone back with Sheppard and his people– an ambassador of sorts, someone who can give us a clear perspective on these people,” Landry elaborated. 

“And, uh, you're asking me? Sir?” That sounded a lot more like Daniel's kind of thing, or possibly someone from the IOA, someone with a diplomatic background. 

“Commander Sheppard indicated that your presence would be welcome,” Landry informed him. 

“And if you're not going, Danny's going to run away with them, and I'm not sure we'd ever manage to pry him back out of there,” O'Neill drawled sardonically. “Also, he'd probably get kidnapped.”

“Can I think about this?” Cam asked, because… well, he liked Sheppard, but that was a far cry from heading to another galaxy with him. Also, Daniel might kill him. 

“Of course, Son,” Landry said, with a bit more of that gruff warmth of his. “I'll have all the particulars emailed to you. We'll need a decision by Monday.”

Cam nodded his understanding and took his leave. Once in the corridor, he blew out a deep breath. Atlantis. Did he want to go? The truth was, he really didn't know. He was curious, of course he was, and maybe he could help foster good relations. On the other hand… Daniel was going to kill him. In his sleep. Maybe… Cam winced a little at the thought, but, no, he should _definitely_ go talk to the man.

***

He spent the next few hours in his office, reviewing the documents he'd been sent, then went to look for Daniel. He found him in the mess hall, half-empty fruit cup forgotten on the table, nose in a big, old book.

“Hello, Sunshine,” Cam greeted him cheerfully as he set his own tray down and took a seat. 

Daniel looked up, pushed his glasses up his nose, and gave him a shrewd look that let Cam know he'd failed entirely at being casual. “Hey, Cam. What can I do for you?” He smiled that quick, bitchy, mocking smile of his. Yeah, Cam wasn't his favourite person just at the moment. 

“Look,” Cam said. “Obviously, they offered me the mission to Atlantis. Also obviously, you wanna go.”

“Yeah,” Daniel agreed. “Jack's not going to let me, is he?”

“Well. Pretty sure he'd have to, if I said no.”

Daniel raised his eyebrows and closed his book, set it on the table. “And are you?”

“Not sure yet,” Cam admitted. “I mean, not that I mind a little gene-therapy, and running around a galaxy full of evil aliens, but I'm not really sure what the IOA expects me to do there. You're the culture guy, and Sam's the tech genius. Me, I'm just a nice guy.”

“Yeah,” Daniel said again with a sigh. “Yeah, that's pretty much why Sheppard asked for you.”

Cam tilted his head. “He did?”

“Yep.” Daniel apparently remembered his fruit cup, because he picked up his spoon and took a thoughtful bite. “Something about how you're more expendable than me.”

Cam winced a bit. “Gee, thanks.”

Daniel tapped his spoon against his lips and smirked. “His words, not mine,” he informed Cam happily. “But I guess, unfortunately, Jack agrees.”

“Yeah, so.” Cam gave him a considering look. “You gonna kill me if I say yes?”

“Well.” Daniel looked like he was considering it. “If I _were_ , I'd hardly admit to it, would I?” He smirked. “Or you could just, you know, say no.”

“Thinking about it,” Cam replied. “On the other hand… Well, it is _Atlantis_. I'm kinda curious.” 

Daniel watched him in silence for a long moment, and Cam ran a hand over his hair. “Look. Maybe, if we establish those trade relations with Sheppard's folks, and they get a ZPM up and running, General O'Neill'd be more on board with you going. Less of that one-way trip feeling.”

“Maybe,” Daniel allowed, then sighed a little. “Sheppard _did_ ask for you, and not just because he and Jack agree that I'm too 'valuable' to head into another galaxy where the only way back depends on Rodney McKay not blowing up the city, or our potential new allies giving me a ride for a few months in their nifty spaceship. You've already made friends with Sheppard.” He shrugged. “And this mission is about making friends. So I think you'd do well.”

Cam stared at him, a little, more flattered than he wanted to admit by the vote of confidence. 

Daniel grinned a little, then narrowed his eyes. “Doesn't mean I have to _like_ it.”

Cam grinned. “No, it doesn't,” he agreed.

They were going to be okay. Yeah, Daniel was going to be bitchy at him for a while, but he wasn't going to _seriously_ hold a grudge. _If_ Cam decided to go. 

He settled in with his food, asked Daniel what he was reading anyway, and teased him about his exasperation with Vala's scoundrelly ways when they somehow ended up talking about how Daniel'd gone to find her again to persuade her to part with the money she'd been given to find information on him and Sheppard when they got captured– not an easy task. Daniel was pretty sure she'd kept some of it for herself, hadn't spent as much as she said she did, but he couldn't prove it, and after she'd offered to let him search her, _thoroughly_ , he'd taken what he could get and fled her attentions. 

Cam realized he missed her. With the dissolution of SG-1, she'd gone back out into the galaxy, back to her old ways, too restless and too unruly to stay at the SGC and join another SG team, though she'd been offered a position. But her loyalty was a personal one, and as much as she'd learned to look out for more than just herself, she just didn't fit into a bigger military context– didn't really fit in on Earth, when she was used to stepping through a gate to a different planet on a whim, or fly spaceships. She had an IDC, popped in now and again, but… Yeah, it wasn't like the good old times when they were a team and Cam would see his best friends all day, every day. 

“I miss it,” he blurted out, waved a hand when Daniel looked at him questioningly. “The gates. The missions. Just… being out there.” 

Daniel's face softened as he smiled wryly. “Yeah,” he agreed. “Me too. I mean, it's nice not to get shot at every other day, but...”

“It's not the same,” Cam finished for him. They shared a look, then Cam sighed, ran a hand over his hair again as he sat back in his chair. “Think I'm gonna do it– Atlantis. Just… one last hurray. Sorry, man.”

Daniel glanced away for a moment, and Cam knew it was to hide the disappointment. He knew how much Atlantis meant to him, knew Daniel was the one who'd never given up on them. And he felt like a selfish asshole, but… He wasn't getting any younger. Maybe this _was_ his last chance to get out there. And maybe, if he did his job well, Daniel'd get to go next time. Cam sure was going to do his very best to make that possible. 

Daniel met his eyes again, gaze serious despite a small smile. “Of course you are. Be careful out there.”

Cam grinned at him. “Always am, Jackson.”

And Daniel rolled his eyes, snorted derisively. “Right,” he grumbled, and Cam laughed.

_Finis_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! We've come to the end of this part of the series! Thank you, everyone, for reading and commenting and being with me on this journey! The sequel isn't written yet, so I unfortunately can't give you a timeline on when I'll start posting, but you can subscribe to the series to get an automatic update notification, and I'll also post a note to this at the time for those who're subscribed here. 
> 
> Thank you, again, for all your support, and I hope to see you next time!


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